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'CONSTANCE    " 


"If  a  wife   is  allowed    to   boil   at 
all    she   will    always    boil   over." 


The  Gentle  Art 

of 

Cooking  Wives 


By  ELIZABETH  STRONG  WORTHINGTON 

Avithor  of  "How  to 
Cook  Husbands,"  etc. 


Published  at  150  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 
v»  by  the  Dodge  Publishing  Company  v» 


[The  Gentle  Art  of  Cooking  Wives] 


COPYRIGHT  IN  THE  YEAR 
NINETEEN  HUNDRED  BY 
DODGE  PUBLISHING  CO 


I 


"GiRLs,  come  to  order !"  shouted  Hilda 
Bretherton  in  a  somewhat  disorderly 
tone. 

"How  can  we  come  to  order  without 
a  president  ?"  queried  a  rosy-cheeked,  roly- 
poly  damsel  answering  to  the  name  of 
Puddy  Kennett. 

"I  elect  Prue  Shaftsbury!"  screamed 
Hilda  above  the  merry  din  of  voices. 

"You  can't  elect — you  simply  nomi- 
nate," said  Prue. 

"I  second  the  motion,"  said  Nannie 
Branscome,  and  her  remark  was  instant- 
ly followed  by  a  storm  of  "ayes"  before 
they  were  called  for,  and  the  president 
was  declared  elected  and  proceeded  to 
take  her  seat. 

"Young  ladies,"  said  she,  "we  are  met 
to  consider  a  scandalous " 

"Scurrilous,"  suggested  Hilda. 

2040602 


10  The  Gentle  Art 

" alarming  article,"  continued  the 

president,  "entitled  'How  to  Cook 
Wives.'  " 

"Here !  here !"  interrupted  Hilda  again, 
"we  can't  do  anything  until  we've  elected 
officers  and  appointed  committees." 

"Out  of  a  club  of  four  members?" 
queried  Prudence. 

"Certainly.  Mother  said  that  yesterday 
at  her  club,  out  of  eight  women  they 
elected  twelve  officers  and  appointed 
seven  committees  of  three  each.  Why, 
you  know  two  men  can't  meet  on  a  street 
corner  without  immediately  forming  a 
secret  society,  electing  president,  vice- 
president,  secretary,  and  treasurer,  and 
appointing  a  committee  of  five  to  get  up 
a  banquet." 

"But  to  return  to  the  subject,"  per- 
sisted the  president — a  long-faced  girl 
with  a  solemn  countenance,  but  a  sus- 
picious gleam  in  her  eye.  "  'How  to 
Cook  Wives' — that  is  the  question  before 
the  house." 

"  'How  to  Cook  Wives !'  Well,  if  that 
isn't  rich !  It  makes  me  think  of  the  old 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  11 

English  nursery  song — 'Come,  ducky, 
come  and  be  killed.'  Now  it  will  be, 
'Come,  ducky,  come  and  be  cooked.'  I 
move  that  Congress  be  urged  to  enact  a 
law  adopting  that  phrase  as  the  only  legal 
form  of  proposal.  Then  if  any  little 
goose  accepts  she  knows  what  to  expect, 
and  is  not  caught  up  and  fried  without 
foreknowledge." 

"Young  ladies,"  said  the  president. 

"Don't  mow  me  down  in  my  prime," 
urged  Hilda  in  an  injured  tone.  "I'm 
making  my  maiden  speech  in  the  house." 

"Oh,  girls,  look,  quick!"  cried  Puddy. 
"See  Miss  Leigh.  Isn't  that  a  fetching 
gown  she  has  on  ?" 

The  entire  club  rushed  to  the  window. 

"Who's  she  with?"  asked  Hilda.  "He's 
rather  fetching,  too." 

"I  believe  his  name  is  Chance,"  said 
Puddy  Kennett.  "He's  not  a  society  fel- 
low." 

"Oh,  he's  the  chum  of  that  lovely  man," 
said  Hilda. 

"Which  lovely  man?"  asked  Prue. 
"There  are  so  many  of  them." 


12  The  Gentle  Art 

"Why — oh,  you  know  his  name.  I 
can't  think  of  it — Loveland — Steve  Love- 
land.  We  met  him  at  Constance  Leigh's 
one  evening." 

Here  Nannie  Branscome  colored,  but 
no  one  noticed  her. 

"Young  ladies,  come  to  order,"  said 
the  president. 

"Or  order  will  come  to  yo'u,"  said 
Hilda.  "Prue  has  raised  her  parasol — 
gavel,  I  mean." 

"There  goes  Amy  Frisbe,"  remarked 
Puddy  from  her  post  by  the  window. 
"Do  you  know  her  engagement's  off  ?" 

"Well,  I'll  be  jig "  Hilda  began. 

"Sh-h !"  said  the  president. 

"The  president  objects  to  slang,  but  I'll 
still  be  jiggered,  as  Lord  Fauntleroy's 
friend  remarked." 

"Sh-h !"  said  the  president. 

"Girls,  that  reminds  me,"  said  Puddy. 
"I  met  a  publisher  from  New  York  at  the 
opera  last  night  who  objected  to  the 
slightest  slang." 

"Oh,  me!"  exclaimed  Hilda.  "Why, 
where  has  Mother  Nature  been  keeping 
the  dear  man  all  these  years  ?" 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  13 

"On  Mr.  Sheldon's  editorial  staff," 
suggested  Nannie  Branscome. 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,  Nannie,"  ex- 
claimed Prudence.  "My  father — and  he's 
not  a  religious  man — said  the  Topeka 
Capital  was  a  wonderful  paper  Sheldon's 
week." 

"I'm  not  denying  that,"  said  Nannie. 
"I  believe  it  was  wonderful.  I  believe 
and  tremble." 

"With  other  little " 

"Sh-h!"  said  the  president,  and  Hilda 
subsided. 

"Was  Amy  Frisbe  at  the  opera  last 
night?"  asked  Puddy  rather  irrelevantly. 

"No,"  said  Hilda,  "but  Arthur  Driscol 
was.  He  sat  in  a  box  with  the  Gorman 
party  and  was  devoted  to  Mamie  Moore 
all  the  evening.  If  I'd  been  Mrs.  Gor- 
man I'd  dropped  him  over  the  railing." 

"You  don't  mean  that  Amy  Frisbe  has 
been  jilted?"  exclaimed  the  president. 

"I  do,  and  it's  her  third  serious  heart 
wound.  Really,  that  girl  is  entitled  to 
draw  a  pension." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jig "  began  Nannie. 


U  The  Gentle  Art 

"Sh-h!"  said  the  president,  and  then 
she  added:  "Young  ladies,  it  is  for  you 
to  decide  how  you'll  be  served  up  in  fu- 
ture." 

"Is  it  for  us  to  decide?"  asked  Nannie 
Branscome. 

She  had  a  peculiar  way  of  saying  things 
of  this  sort.  She  would  lower  her  head 
and  look  out  from  under  her  head  frizzles 
in  a  non-committal  fashion,  but  with  a 
suggestion  of  something  that  made  her 
piquant,  bewitching  face  irresistible. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  president.  "The 
style  of  cooking  depends  on  the  cook." 

"Well,  let  us  first  see  what  choice  we 
have  in  the  matter.  What  variety  of 
dishes  are  named?  Where's  the  article 
and  where  did  it  come  from?"  asked 
Hilda. 

"George  Daly  had  it  last  night  and  he 
read  bits  of  it  between  the  acts." 

"So  that's  what  I  missed  by  declining 
Mrs.  Warren's  box  party  invitation !"  ex- 
claimed Hilda.  "Well,  let's  have  the 
article." 

"I     haven't     got     it,"     said     Puddy. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  15 

"George  wouldn't  give  it  to  me.  He 
said  it  belonged  to  Mr.  Porter,  but  I 
copied  some  of  it." 

"Oh,  there's  Evelyn  Rogers.  Let's 
call  her  in.  Evelyn !  Evelyn !" 

Hilda  was  at  the  window  gesticulating 
and  calling. 

"Young  ladies,"  said  the  president, 
"I'm  surprised.  Come  to  order.  Good- 
morning,  Evelyn.  We  ajre  met  to  con- 
sider an  important  matter — 'How  to  Cook 
Wives.'  " 

Evelyn  laughed. 

"Is  that  all  you  called  me  in  for?  I 
heard  enough  of  that  last  night.  It  was 
George  Daly's  theme  all  the  evening." 

"Were  you  at  the  box  party?"  asked 
Hilda. 

"Yes,  I  was  so  silly  as  to  go.  Oh, 
these  society  people  just  wear  me  out. 
I'm  more  tired  this  morning  than  I  should 
be  if  I'd  worked  at  a  churn  all  day  yes- 
terday. They're  so  stupid.  They  talk 
all  night  about  nothing." 

"You  ought  to  commend  them  for  in- 
tellectual economy;  they  make  a  little  go 
such  a  long  way,"  said  Prudence. 


16  The  Gentle  Art 

"Seriously,  though,  are  you  met  to  con- 
sider that  piece  ?"  asked  Evelyn. 

"No,"  said  Puddy.  "We  just  hap- 
pened to  meet,  and  that  came  up  for  dis- 
cussion." 

"Well,  as  I  don't  care "  began 

Evelyn,  laughing. 

"Sh-h !"  said  the  president 

"The  publisher  from  New  York  says 
slang  is  not  used  in  the  best  circles,"  said 
Hilda. 

She  recited  this  in  a  loud,  stereotyped 
tone,  giving  the  last  word  a  strong  up- 
ward inflection,  suggestive  of  a  final  call 
to  the  dining-room. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Evelyn.  "I  met 
him  at  the  box  party  last  night,  and  he 
told  me  so." 

"What  did  you  say?"  inquired  Puddy. 

"I  said  it  must  be  awful  to  be  deaf 
from  birth." 

"Did  he  hear  that?"  laughed  Hilda. 

"I  presume  he  did,  for  he  gave  me  one 
look  and  straightway  became  dumb  as 
well  as  deaf." 

"Girls,  I  must  be  going!"  exclaimed 


Of  Cooking  "Wives.  17 

Hilda  suddenly.  "Really,  if  any  poor 
galley  slave  works  harder  than  I  do,  I 
commend  him  to  the  Society  for  the  Pre- 
vention of  Cruelty  to  Adults.  I've  al- 
ready been  out  to  a  luncheon  to-day,  at 
Mrs.  Pierce's,  and  Pachmann's  matinee 
this  afternoon,  and  I  must  go  to  Joe 
Harding's  dinner  to-night " 

"Are  you  going  to  that  swell  affair?" 
interrupted  Puddy.  "I  envy  you." 

"I  don't,"  said  Evelyn  scornfully.  "Joe 
Harding's  little  better  than  an  idiot,  and 
he's  notorious  in  many  ways." 

"He  can  give  swell  dinners,  though, 
and  the  best  people  are  his  guests." 

"No.  they're  not,"  said  Evelyn  em- 
phatically. "I'm  not  there  and  never  will 
be." 

"Young  ladies,  come  to  order,"  said 
Hilda  in  a  severe  tone,  "and  listen  to  my 
tale  of  woe.  After  the  Harding  dinner 
I  go  to  the  opera  with  the  Harding  party, 
and  then,  with  my  chaperone,  that  pink  of 
propriety,  Mrs.  Warren,  I  attend  the 
Pachmann  reception  at  the  Rutherfords. 
Now,  if  your  scrubwoman  can  name  a 
longer,  harder,  or " 


18  The  Gentle  Art 

"More  soul  and  brain  enervating  list," 
continued  Evelyn. 

"I  should  be  pleased — I  mean  pained 
to  hear  it,"  concluded  Hilda. 

"And  what  does  it  all  amount  to?" 
asked  Evelyn.  "Will  any  one  tell  me 
what  you  are  working  for?" 

"A  settlement,"  said  Nannie  promptly. 
"I'm  the  only  niece  of  poor  but  impe- 
cunious relatives,  and  they  expect  me  to 
do  my  best  and  marry  well." 

"Goodness,  child!"  exclaimed  Hilda, 
"I  hope  you  don't  tell  the  brutal,  cold- 
blooded truth  in  society!" 

"Why,  no,  that  isn't  it,"  said  Puddy. 
"We  are  going  out  to  have  a  good  time." 

"Oh,  you  slaves  and  bondwomen !"  ex- 
claimed Evelyn.  "You  don't  know  what 
a  good  time  means.  I  must  be  off. 
Adieu,  seneschals."  And  with  a  pitying 
smile  she  left  them. 

She  was  a  handsome,  spirited-looking 
girl,  with  a  queenly  carriage.  As  she 
went  out  of  the  house  Constance  Leigh 
came  by,  and  the  two  walked  off  to- 
gether. 


Of  Cooking:  Wives.  19 

"There's  a  pair  of  them,"  Hilda  re- 
marked. 

"Awfully  nice  girls,"  said  Nannie. 

"Oh,  yes,  but  they're  rabid.  Constance 
Leigh  is  as  independent  as  a  March  hare, 
and  Evelyn  is  perfectly  fierce  for  reforms 
now." 

"What,  a  socialist  ?"  asked  Prudence. 

"No,  not  exactly,  but  she  gathers  the 
most  awful  class  of  people  about  her,  and 
fairly  bristles  with  indignation  if  one  ven- 
tures to  criticise  them." 

"What  do  you  mean — criminals?" 
asked  Prudence. 

"You'd  think  so  if  you  chanced  to  run 
into  one  of  them.  Why,  last  Sunday 
evening  she  had  an  inebriate  up  to  tea 
with  her;  next  Sunday  she  expects  a  wife- 
beater,  or  choker,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  and  the  other  day,  when  I  was  com- 
ing out  from  a  call  on  her,  I  met  a  black- 
browed,  desperately  wicked-looking  man 
— as  big  as  a  mountain.  I  know  he  was 
a  murderer  or  something.  I  never  was 
so  frightened  in  my  life.  Why,  I  took 
to  my  heels  and  ran  the  length  of  the 


20  The  Gentle  Art 

street.  I  presume  he  was  after  me,  but  I 
didn't  dare  look  behind." 

"You  needn't  have  worried,  Hilda," 
said  Prudence.  "You  know  big  men 
never  run  after  you." 

It  was  a  notorious  fact  that  most  of 
Hilda's  admirers  were  about  half  her  size. 

"Oh,  yes.  That  holds  good  in  society, 
but  I  don't  know  what  might  obtain  in 
criminal  circles." 

"Hilda,  did  your  villain  carry  a  cane 
and  wear  glasses?" 

"I  was  too  frightened  to  notice,  but  I 
believe  he  flourished  a  stout  stick  of  some 
sort,  and  I  do  remember  a  wicked  gleam 
about  his  eyes — might  have  been  spec- 
tacles." 

The  girls  burst  out  laughing. 

"Why,  it's  Professor  Thing-a-my-Bob, 
or  Dry-as-Dust,  or  somebody  or  other, 
from  Washington.  He's  her  fiance." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  he  is,"  persisted 
Hilda.  "He's  a  wicked-looking  villain." 

"Oh!"  screamed  the  girls,  and  then 
Prudence  added,  with  mock  solemnity : 

"Any  one  who  could  talk  slightingly  of 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  21 

a  genuine  college  professor  would  speak 
disrespectfully  of  the  equator  or  be  sassy 
to  the  dictionary." 

"I'd  just  enjoy  telling  the  poor  old 

proff  what  Hilda "  began  Nannie, 

but  the  persevering  president  interrupted 
her. 

"Young  ladies,  you  will  now  come  to 
order  and  consider  the  subject  in  hand." 

"Which  hand?  Or  in  other  words, 
where's  that  article  ?  I  should  like  to  see 
it,"  said  Hilda. 

"It  appeared  in  the  Tribune,  but  I 
didn't  see  it,"  said  Puddy,  "but  I  can  give 
you  some  little  bits,  here  and  there,  that 
I  jotted  down  as  George  Daly  read  them. 
Now  listen." 

"Order,"  said  the  president. 

"  'First  catch  your  fish,'  "  Puddy  read 
impressively,  looking  around  for  ap- 
proval. 

"First  go  a-fishing,  I  should  say,"  said 
Hilda. 

"  'Don't  hang  up  your  fish  on  a  hook 
in  the  housekeeper's  department  and  think 
your  work  is  done.' ' 


22  The  Gentle  Art 

"That's  Hugh  Millett,"  murmured  the 
president.  "I  don't  think  he's  been  home 
since  he  returned  from  his  wedding  trip." 

"  'Start  with  a  clear  fire,  not  too  hot. 
Don't  pile  on  all  the  wood  and  coal  at 
once,  for  if  the  fire  burns  down  before 
your  fish  is  done  it  will  be  quite  spoiled.' ' 

"Well,  Mrs.  Munsey  is  a  spoiled  fish, 
then,"  said  Hilda.  "Don't  you  remem- 
ber, Prue,  how  Will  Munse}  heaped  on 
the  levering  at  first?  It  was  four  inches 
deep — lovey  this  and  dovey  that  till  it 
fairly  cloyed  one.  But  the  fire  went  out 
long  ago.  There's  no  spark  or  sparking 
on  that  hearth  now." 

'  'Don't  think,  after  the  cooking  is  well 
under  way,  that  you  can  leave  it  to  take 
care  of  itself.'  I  had  something  more," 
said  Puddy,  fumbling  in  her  reticule  for 
another  bit  of  paper.  "Oh,  here  it  is: 
'Don't  stuff  your  fish  with  dried  crusts 
composed  of  the  way  your  mother  used  to 
do  this.'  And  here's  another:  'Some 
husbands,  after  making  it  so  hot  in  pri- 
vate that  their  poor  wives  are  nearly  re- 
duced to  a  cinder,  serve  them  up  in  pub- 


Of  Cooking  Wives*  23 

lie  with  a  cold  shoulder.  Others  toss 
them  carelessly  into  a  kettle  to  simmer 
from  morning  till  night  over  the  nursery 
fire.'  " 

"I'm  going,"  said  Nannie  abruptly,  and 
without  further  ceremony  she  departed, 
just  as  Evelyn  Rogers  came  in  again. 

"Nannie  Branscome  is  a  perfect " 

Hilda  began. 

"Sh-h !"  said  the  president. 

"Well,  I  trust  she'll  settle  in  a  heavily 
wooded  country,  for  the  cooking  she'll 
require  before  she's  palatable  would  break 
a  millionaire  if  fuel  was  dear." 

"Oh!  she'll  do  well  enough  when  she 
has  her  growth,"  said  Prudence  in  her 
dry  way. 

Nannie's  growth  was  a  subject  of  jest 
among  her  mates.  At  sixteen  she  sud- 
denly thrust  her  foot  forward  into  wom- 
anhood with  saucy  bravado,  as  it 
seemed.  At  seventeen  she  snatched  it 
back — pettishly,  some  said,  but  there  were 
those  who  looked  deeper,  and  they  dis- 
cerned a  certain  vague  terror  in  the  move- 
ment— a  dread  of  the  unknown.  Since 


24  The  Gentle  Art 

that  time — almost  a  year  now — Nannie 
had  been  hovering  on  the  border  line, 
something  like  a  ghost  that  has  ceased  to 
be  an  inhabitant  of  this  world  and  yet 
refuses  to  be  well  laid. 

"Now  listen  to  this,  girls,"  said  Puddy, 
who  was  intent  on  reading  her  excerpts 
to  the  bitter  end.  "  'If  a  wife  is  allowed 
to  boil  at  all,  she  always  boils  over.' ' 

"It  would  require  a  high  temperature 
to  boil  you,  Hilda,"  said  Prudence  with  a 
laugh,  for  Hilda's  good-nature  had  passed 
into  proverb. 

The  girl  looked  down  from  her  five 
feet  nine  inches  of  height  with  her  easy, 
comfortable  smile.. 

"Why?  Because  of  my  altitude?"  she 
asked. 

'  'And  you  will  be  sure  to  scald  your 
fingers  and  get  the  worst  of  it,'  "  Puddy 
went  on  relentlessly. 

This  struck  Evelyn's  fancy  and  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"Girls,  I  can  just  see  Nannie's  hus- 
band sitting  in  the  doorway  of  their  cabin 
blowing  his  fingers  and  wincing." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  25 

"Can  you?"  said  a  voice,  and  the  girls 
started  as  they  saw  Nannie  standing  be- 
tween the  curtains  of  the  folding  doors. 

Sometimes  she  resembled  an  elf  in  her 
weird  beauty;  just  now  she  looked  more 
like  an  imp. 

Something  disagreeable  might  have  en- 
sued, for  Nannie's  temper  was  uncertain 
and  undisciplined,  but  Prudence  said  in  a 
presidential  tone : 

"Young  ladies,  it  is  for  you  to  decide 
how  you  will  be  served  up  in  future.  Will 
some  one  please  make  a  motion  ?" 

"Oh,  let's  decide  how  each  other  will 
be  served,"  said  Hilda.  "You  know  at 
church  nobody  applies  any  of  the  sermon 
to  himself,  but  fits  it  all  on  to  his  neigh- 
bors." 

"Evelyn  will  be  raked  over  the  coals," 
said  Nannie  in  a  low,  intense  voice. 

Evelyn's  handsome  face  flushed  and 
her  lips  parted  for  a  retort,  but  Hilda  ex- 
claimed : 

"Puddy  will  be  made  into  delicious 
round  croquets,"  and  she  smacked  her  lips 
with  anticipatory  relish. 


26  The  Gentle  Art 

"Hilda'll  be  kept  in  a  nice  continual 
stew,"  retorted  Puddy. 

"Nannie'll  be  parboiled,  fried,  fricas- 
seed  "  began  Hilda,  but  Nannie  ex- 
claimed : 

"No,  I'll  be  roasted — you  see  if  I'm 
not!" 

"Prue  will  be  baked  in  a  genteel,  mod- 
ern way,"  said  Evelyn. 

"Yes !"  shouted  Hilda,  to  get  above  the 
noise.  "Girls,  mark  my  words.  Some 
day  Mr.  Smith,  Brown,  or  Jones,  who- 
ever he  is,  will  invite  us  all  to  a  clambake, 
and  when  we  arrive  we'll  find  it's  just 
dear  old  Prue  served  up." 

This  hit  at  Prudence's  usual  silence 
struck  the  company  forcibly,  and  after  a 
little  more  from  the  recipe  they  broke  up 
with  noisy  mirth. 

On  the  doorstep  Nannie  paused  and 
looked  about  her.  Puddy's  last  extract 
from  the  article  under  discussion  was 
wandering  through  her  brain,  something 
as  a  cat  wanders  through  a  strange  house. 

"Order  a  dressing  as  rich  and  as  plen- 
tiful as  you  can  afford." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  27 

Nannie  understood  this  well  enough. 
She  was  wearing  such  a  dressing  at  that 
very  moment,  but  the  next  sentence 
puzzled  her. 

"If  you  can't  afford  the  best,  rieap  your 
fish  with  crumbs  of  comfort.  Press 
some  of  these  into  pretty  shapes,  such  as 
hearts,  and  roses,  and  true  lovers'  knots. 
If  you  have  neither  the  patience  nor  the 
skill  to  follow  these  directions,  take  my 
advice  and  don't  go  a-fishing." 

Nannie  had  never  received  a  caress  at 
home  in  her  life  and  very  few  abroad,  for 
she  was  not  one  to  form  close  friendships 
among  the  girls.  Her  parents  had  died 
before  she  could  become  acquainted  with 
them,  and  the  aunt  who  had  reared  her 
was  a  worldly  woman  who  looked  upon 
her  merely  as  a  valuable  piece  of  social 
property.  Nannie's  lack  of  popularity 
was  disappointing,  but  the  aunt  still  hoped 
that  her  unusual  beauty  would  atone  for 
her  brusqueness,  crudity,  and  lack  of  tact, 
and  she  would  form  a  rich  alliance.  Be- 
tween her  aunt  and  uncle  there  had  never 
been,  to  Nannie's  knowledge,  the  slight- 


28  The  Gentle  Art 

est  expression  of  affection,  and  so  when 
one  spoke  of  "hearts  and  roses"  and  "true 
lovers'  knots"  in  a  domestic  connection, 
the  words  fell  strangely  upon  the  girl's 
ears. 

The  sun  was  streaming  through  the 
trees  that  lined  the  broad,  handsome  ave- 
nue as  the  merry  group  broke  up.  Happy 
children,  their  dear  little  bodies  tastefully 
clothed  and  their  dear  little  faces  wreathed 
in  smiles,  flitted  about  here  and  there  at 
play,  like  pretty  elves.  Now  and  then 
some  one  or  more  of  them  would  run, 
with  shouts  of  glee,  to  welcome  a  home- 
coming father. 

In  the  heart  of  a  more  womanly,  more 
happily  trained  girl,  all  this  would  have 
awakened  tender  yearnings.  It  awak- 
ened a  feeling  in  Nannie's  heart — just 
what  it  meant  she  could  not  have  told — 
but  this  vague,  unused  something  was 
soon  swept  one  side  by  a  more  comical 
image.  As  she  looked  at  the  handsome 
dwellings  she  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  call- 
ing: 

"Wives  for  dinner !  wives  for  dinner !" 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  29 

And  from  the  household  altars  there 
rose  the  smoke  of  unique  dishes — domes- 
tic fries,  feminine  roasts,  conjugal  stews, 
in  highly  colored  family  jars. 

"Come,  ducky,  come  and  be  cooked!" 
sounded  in  her  ears. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Nannie  audi- 
bly. 

And  she  hurried  down  the  avenue. 


30  The  Gentle  Art 


II 


ONE  evening  a  few  weeks  previous  to 
the  formation  of  the  Young  Woman's 
Club — for  an  infant  society  of  that  name 
dated  from  the  burlesque  meeting  just 
described — Randolph  Chance  was  seated 
in  the  room  of  his  nearest  friend  and  was 
talking  over  the  events  of  the  day.  Ordi- 
narily he  was  not  free  of  speech,  but  with 
this  man  he  could  think  aloud.  There 
are  folk  whose  very  presence  is  enough 
to  shut  one  up  with  a  snap  as  the  wrong 
touch  closes  the  shell  of  a  clam ;  there  are 
others  who  act  upon  us  as  heaven's  own 
sun  and  dew  act  upon  the  flowers. 

For  a  time  after  Randolph  had  taken 
his  accustomed  seat — an  old  chair  in  an 
ingle-nook  of  the  fireplace — he  was  silent, 
possibly  through  physical  disability,  for 
there  was  no  elevator  at  night,  and  nine 
flights  of  stairs  is  not  provocative  of  con- 
versation ;  or  he  may  have  been  awed  into 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  31 

silence,  for  he  often  told  Steve  that  he 
was  nearer  heaven  than  he  would  ever  be 
again  in  all  probability.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
he  sat  there  enjoying  his  thoughts  and 
the  restful  atmosphere  of  the  room.  Quite 
unlike  a  bachelor's  apartment,  this;  as 
unlike  as  many  another  belonging  to  that 
particular  branch  of  the  genus  homo — 
rooms  in  which  we  would  probably  re- 
ceive a  mild  shock  and  be  compelled  to 
rebuild  our  entire  structure  of  theories 
on  the  subject  of  the  helplessness,  un- 
comfortableness,  and  general  miserable- 
ness  of  that  specimen  known  as  bachelor. 
To  be  sure,  Steve  Loveland  was  fortu- 
nate in  the  selection  of  his  rookery,  but 
that  might  be  called  an  outcome  of  his 
genius — a  genius  with  which  bachelors 
are  not  supposed  to  be  blessed.  At  first 
glance,  one  who  had  no  such  gift  for 
situation  would  not  have  considered  such 
a  spot  favorable  for  the  construction  of  <\ 
home — if  this  word  may,  for  a  moment, 
be  snatched  from  the  wedded  portion  of 
the  human  race — but  the  artist  in  Steve 
recognized  its  possibilities. 


32  The  Gentle  Art 

Carnot  Fonnac,  who  originally  reared 
and  owned  the  building  under  discussion, 
was  himself  a  wretched,  reprehensible 
bachelor,  but  being  also  a  Frenchman  he 
possessed  some  taste;  and  intending  to 
make  his  abode  in  the  sky-parlor  of  his 
structure,  he  so  planned  it  that  there  was 
a  hint  of  grace  and  beauty  in  its  arches 
and  dimensions,  as  well  as  of  expanse. 
An  English  friend  suggested  the  fire- 
place, and  he  had  the  good  sense  to  act 
upon  this  most  sensible  advice.  After 
Fonnac's  death  his  building  went  into  re- 
tirement, so  to  speak;  fashion  minced  off 
in  another  direction  and  left  it  to  its  grief, 
so  now,  at  the  remove  of  some  fifteen 
years,  Steve  Loveland  obtained  the  rental 
of  the  attic  for  a  mere  song,  and  here  he 
cast  his  lot,  for  he  was  his  own  house- 
keeper. A  few  screens  skillfully  arranged 
reduced  the  apparent  size  of  the  apart- 
ment; some  old-fashioned  furniture  his 
mother  spared  him  made  it  homelike  and 
comfortable ;  an  air-tight  stove  on  the  one 
side  (there  were  two  chimneys)  held 
Boreas  at  bay,  while  on  the  other  a  little 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  33 

basket  grate  of  coals,  setting  like  a  ruddy 
gem  in  the  center  of  the  ample  fireplace, 
was  at  once  an  element  of  good  cheer  and 
a  respecter  of  the  law  of  economy. 

On  this  particular  evening  the  cronies 
sat  in  their  accustomed  places  within  the 
fireplace,  one  on  either  side ;  a  little  stand, 
on  which  were  set  a  couple  of  plates  of 
crackers  and  cheese,  stood  near  by,  and  a 
pot  of  oysters,  cheerily  simmering,  hung 
from  the  crane  above  the  fire. 

Randolph  was  silent;  so  was  Steve — 
the  latter  never  talked ;  in  place  of  words 
he  used  the  poker — not  in  any  fiendish 
way ;  heaven  forbid !  but  in  a  mild,  unob- 
trusive manner,  intelligible  only  to  him- 
self and  Randolph.  In  this  system  of 
fireworks  stenography,  so  to  speak,  a 
series  of  slow,  deliberate  pokes  under  the 
fire  implied  contemplation;  poking  down 
from  above  stood  for  disagreement ;  while 
thrusts  of  the  poker  between  the  ribs  of 
the  grate  expressed  sympathy  or  agita- 
tion. 

"Steve,"  said  Randolph — his  chair  was 
tilted  against  the  brick  side  wall  of  the 


34  The  Gentle  Art 

chimney,  and  he  was  leaning  back,  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head — "I 
tell  you  she's  a  pretty  nice  girl;  an  aw- 
fully sensible  girl;  one  of  the  kind  that 
sets  your  brain  to  jogging.  It's  easy  to 
talk  to  her,  she's  so  suggestive,  wide 
awake,  and  at  the  same  time  she's  restful, 
too.  She's  none  of  your  hoity-toity  char- 
acters, one  thing  one  day  and  another  the 
next,  so  you  never  know  where  you  stand 
with  them.  You  can  feel  secure  with 
her.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  her  all  my 
life;  there's  the  most  perfect  understand- 
ing between  us;  we  don't  have  to  talk;  I 
think  she  knows  my  thoughts,  and  I'm 
certain  I  know  hers.  Awfully  nice  girl; 
one  of  the  nicest  I  ever  knew." 

"Must  be,"  said  Steve  gently. 

After  this  there  was  some  talk  of  a 
desultory  sort,  some  solicitous  watching 
of  the  oysters  that  were  singing  softly 
preparatory  to  boiling,  and  then  Ran- 
dolph bethought  him  of  a  conversation 
he  overheard  on  the  train  that  day  and 
repeated  it  to  Loveland,  who  sat  bending 
over  toward  the  fire,  his  elbows  resting 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  35 

on  his  knees  and  poker  in  hand  ready  for 
action. 

"I  tell  you,  Steve,  it  sets  one  thinking 
to  get  at  the  woman's  side  of  the  matter," 
said  Randolph.  "I've  been  idiot  enough 
to  suppose  they  thought  just  as  we  do  on 
most  subjects." 

Loveland  smiled  and  poked  the  fire 
gently  from  above. 

"You  know  we've  always  been  taught 
that  women  were  naturally  dependent, 
and  I  supposed  it  was  second  nature  for 
them  to  receive  money  from  their  hus- 
bands, and  so  they  got  enough  they  cared 
no  more  about  it.  Do  you  think  many  of 
them  feel  like  that  woman  in  the  car?" 

Loveland  poked  the  fire  from  beneath 
and  then  sighed  helplessly. 

"Can't  say,  I'm  sure,"  he  replied  in  his 
gentle,  hesitant  way.  "They  don't  seem 
to  go  according  to  tradition  in  anything, 
so  far  as  I've  noticed.  They're  a  peculiar 
race." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said 
Randolph  in  a  practical  tone.  "It's  pretty 
easy  to  understand,  once  your  attention's 


36  The  Gentle  Art 

called  to  it.  I'd  never  given  the  subject 
any  thought,  but  if  one  chooses  to  ob- 
serve he  can  very  soon  find  out  what's 
what.  Some  men  are  idiots  and  won't 
learn,  so  they  get  in  a  mess. 

"It's  natural  for  you  to  be  mystified, 
Steve,"  continued  Randolph  after  a  short 
pause,  "but  you  see  I  have  a  sister  and  I 
know  all  about  women.  You  can  judge 
of  the  rest  by  any  one  of  them.  They're 
pretty  much  alike." 

Loveland  gave  the  top  of  the  fire  a  few 
little  jabs. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Randolph.  "You 
have  mother  and  sister  both,  but  you 
haven't  lived  with  them  for  years.  If 
you  don't  actually  live  in  the  same  house 
with  women  you  can't  know  them.  Of 
course  even  then  you  may  be  in  the  dark 
on  a  point  or  two,  as  I  was  on  the  money 
question,  but  you  can  soon  learn.  All  a 
woman  wants  is  fair  treatment.  If  a 
man  drinks  and  makes  a  beast  of  himself 
or  sulks  around  in  place  of  telling  her 
what  he  don't  like  and  letting  her  change 
it,  of  course  she  isn't  going  to  be  happy. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  37 

It's  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log  to  manage  a 
woman." 

Loveland  rose  and  thrust  the  poker 
down  through  the  top  crust  of  the  fire  and 
left  it  standing  there. 

"As  far  as  management  goes,"  Ran- 
dolph went  on  unheedmgly,  "leaving 
morality,  and  expense,  and  all  that  out  of 
the  question,  I'd  just  as  soon  turn  Mor- 
mon and  marry  forty  women." 

Here  Loveland  stabbed  the  fire  clear 
through  the  body,  bringing  the  poker  out 
on  the  under  side  and  against  the  hearth 
with  a  force  that  bent  its  glowing  point. 

"The  stew's  done,"  he  said.  "We'll 
dish  up  now." 

This  little  scene,  or  rather  the  conver- 
sation that  seasoned  the  stew,  soon  faded 
from  Randolph's  memory,  but  it  lingered 
in  the  mind  of  his  companion.  Men  like 
the  latter,  little  given  to  speech,  are  apt  to 
turn  and  re-turn  in  thought  what  has  been 
said  to  them,  and  therefore  do  not  easily 
forget. 

Several  weeks  after  this  the  two  men 
sat  on  the  bachelor  hearth  once  more; 


38  The  Gentle  Art 

Loveland  in  his  usual  quiet  mood  and 
Chance  smarting  from  a  recent  wound. 
He  had  begun  to  feel  that  his  position 
was  almost  secure  with  Miss  Leigh,  but 
that  day,  on  the  occasion  of  a  picnic  at 
which  he  had  amused  himself  by  trifling 
with  a  silly  young  girl,  he  was  amazed, 
mortified,  and  hurt  by  receiving  the  cold 
shoulder  when  he  proffered  his  company 
to  Miss  Leigh  on  the  way  home. 

His  friend's  hospitable  hearth  had  more 
than  once  proven  a  refuge  and  a  solace. 
It  was  so  to-night,  and  Randolph  began 
to  take  heart  again  as  he  settled  back  in 
his  comfortable  chair  in  the  ingle-nook 
and  watched  the  hanging  of  the  oyster 
stew  upon  the  crane. 

For  a  time  the  gentle  simmering  of  the 
appetizing  dish  was  the  only  sound  to  be 
heard.  Randolph  did  not  feel  like  talk- 
ing or  even  listening,  and  his  companion 
knew  how  to  hold  his  peace. 

Steve  Loveland  was  one  of  those  men 
whose  intuitive  sense  is  as  fine  as  a  wom- 
an's; of  delicate  physique,  strong  brain, 
and  a  sensitive  temperament  that  might 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  39 

have  gone  off  on  a  morbid  tangent 
but  for  the  common  sense,  cheerfulness, 
and  unselfishness  that  held  it  true  to 
the  course.  The  last  man  in  the  world  to 
lead  a  lonely  life,  but  there  was  an  in- 
valid mother  and  a  delicate  sister  in  a 
pretty  little  country  town  home  some  two 
hundred  miles  away,  and  that  was  why 
Steve  had  no  home  of  his  own.  Loving 
nature  as  I  think  most  men  of  fine,  sen- 
sitive fiber  do,  yearning  for  wife,  and 
children,  and  hearthstone,  as  every  good 
man  must,  he  had  cheerfully  and  forever 
put  one  side  all  hope  of  fulfilling  these 
holy  dreams  and  had  taken  his  place  on 
the  force  of  a  daily  paper,  never  thinking 
he  was  a  hero.  His  comrades  never 
thought  of  that,  either;  they  only  knew 
that  he  was  always  pleasant,  always  con- 
siderate, always  every  inch  a  man,  and 
they  loved  him  with  one  accord. 

It  was  to  such  a  friend  as  this  that 
Randolph  had  given  his  heart,  for  al- 
though he  did  not  fully  understand  him, 
he  loved  him,  and  the  answering  affection 
he  received  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  tributes  to  his  own  fine  qualities. 


40  The  Gentle  Art 

When  Randolph  was  ready  to  talk  he 
told  the  story  of  the  day — its  hope,  its 
disappointment,  and  humiliation. 

"It  beats  the  Dutch,  Steve.  I  can't 
think  what  was  the  matter.  There  wasn't 
a  thing  I  did  or  a  word  I  said  to  make  her 
behave  so." 

Steve  was  softly  poking  the  fire  from 
above.  The  night  was  quite  cool  for 
June. 

"No,  there  was  not,"  Randolph  re- 
affirmed. "I've  gone  over  the  whole  day 
again  and  again.  I  didn't  give  her  the 
least  excuse.  What  do  you  suppose  was 
the  matter  with  her?" 

Steve  looked  up  with  an  almost  startled 
air. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  I  can't  say.  They're 
quite  beyond  me." 

"They're  beyond  every  one,"  said  Ran- 
dolph in  the  tone  of  a  Supreme  Court 
judge.  "I  don't  see  what  the  Lord  made 
them  for." 

Steve  looked  up  again  and  there  was 
the  least  suspicion  of  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"How  is  it,"  he  asked  in  his  gentle 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  41 

way — "how  many  of  them  is  it  you  are 
prepared  to  manage?" 

Randolph  brought  his  chair  down  on  its 
four  legs. 

"Not  a  confounded  one!"  he  said. 


42  The  Gentle  Art 


in 


FOR  a  time  Randolph  Chance  was  fair- 
ly dazed  by  the  suddenness  with  which  his 
fortune  changed.  Yesterday  it  was  down 
— deep  down;  to-day  it  had  gone  flying 
up.  He  had  followed  Constance  Leigh 
when  she  walked  to  the  lake  in  the  after- 
noon; had  helped  her  from  a  perilous 
place  in  the  midst  of  rough  winds  and 
still  rougher  waves;  and  as  he  took  her 
from  the  pier  their  eyes  had  met,  and 
this  was  why,  later  on,  he  sat  by  his 
friend's  fireside  in  a  state  of  bewildered 
rapture. 

An  outsider,  one  of  the  world's  com- 
mon folk,  would  have  made  but  little  out 
of  Randolph's  brief,  rough-hewn  sen- 
tences. But  Loveland  was  finely  strung; 
he  understood. 

"I  can't  forget  that  look.  It  breaks 
me  all  up  every  time  I  think  of  it." 


Of  Cooking  "Wives.  43 

Randolph  spoke  like  a  man  who  was 
talking  to  himself. 

"It's  so  unreal— -I  may  have  dreamed 
it,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "I  tell  you, 
Steve" — this  with  a  sudden  turn — "I 
don't  dare  to  hope,  but  if " 

There  was  no  perceptible  tremor  in  his 
voice,  but  the  sentence  broke  sharply. 

"I  know,  old  man,  I  know,"  said  Steve 
in  his  gentlest  voice. 

And  he  poked  the  fire  softly  between 
the  ribs  of  the  grate. 

It  seemed  that  Randolph's  hope  was  not 
without  foundation,  for  after  he  had  been 
the  toy  of  fate  somewhat  longer  he  came 
to  Steve  one  night  with  great  news,  and 
yet  no  news  to  Steve,  who  had  long  dis- 
cerned the  signs  of  the  times  and  had 
been  dreading  what  he  saw  must  come. 
Now,  although  he  felt  sharp  pangs  of 
grief  on  seeing  his  boon  and  sole  com- 
panion snatched  from  him  and  about  to 
be  offered  up  upon  the  altar  matrimonial, 
yet  he  rejoiced  thereat  with  the  full  force 
of  his  unselfish  naiture. 

On  this  especial  night  the.  two  men  sat 


44  The  Gentle  Art 

beside  the  fire,  and  also  beside  some  of  the 
last  oysters  that  would  ever  be  served  up 
with  the  spicy  sauce  of  this  same  good 
comradeship.  As  befitted  so  memorable 
an  occasion,  the  oysters  were  big  fellows 
and  were  frying  gloriously. 

Randolph,  who  was  in  great  good 
spirits,  leaned  over  and  lifted  them  care- 
fully with  a  fork  he  held  in  hand. 

"Here  we  are !"  he  exclaimed.  "Things 
are  done  brown  now !" 

Then  the  two  men  looked  up  at  each 
other  and  burst  out  laughing. 

There  was  one  important  ceremony 
which  Randolph  felt  must  precede  the 
marriage  service,  and  that  was  the  intro- 
duction of  his  bosom  friend  to  his  fiancee. 

"I've  been  puzzling  my  brains  to  think 
how  I  can  bring  this  about,"  he  said  to 
Constance  one  day.  "I've  already  hinted 
at  it  to  Steve,  but  he  don't  take.  I  know 
he  wants  to  meet  you,  but  he's  such  a  re- 
tiring fellow — not  really  bashful,  but  like 
a  clam  in  his  shell." 

"Don't  distress  yourself,  I  beg  of  you," 
said  Constance  with  a  mischievous  smile. 


Of  Cooking:  Wives.  45 

"Mr.  Loveland  and  I  have  already  met 
and  are  now  the  best  of  friends." 

Randolph  stared  at  her  in  open-mouthed 
amazement. 

"Where?"  he  managed  to  ask. 

"Right  here  in  this  parlor.  I  must  tell 
you  about  it — it  was  most  beautiful.  His 
card  took  me  by  surprise,  but  I  supposed 
you  had  brought  him.  When  I  came 
downstairs  there  he  was,  looking  alto- 
gether different  from  your  descriptions." 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  said  Randolph. 
"Do  you  mean  to  impeach  my  state- 
ments ?" 

"Altogether  better,"  persisted  Con- 
stance. "Yes,  he  is  taller1  and  has  a 
most  interesting  face.  He  came  forward 
to  greet  me  without  a  particle  of  embar- 
rassment, and  there  was  something  so 
manly  and  simple,  and  withal  so  high- 
bred in  his  every  movement,  that  I  was 
charmed.  I  know  he  must  come  of  a  fine 
family." 

"Oh,  he  does.  He  had  a  line  of  an- 
cestors a  mile  long  aboard  the  Mayflower. 
A  cousin  of  his  was  telling  me.  He  never 
said  a  word.  He  never  talks." 


46  The  Gentle  Arl 

"Ah!"  said  Constance  with  an  arch 
smile.  "He  talked  that  evening,  I  assure 
you,  and  to  good  effect.  He  had  but  a 
few  moments  to  stay,  but  he  made  every 
moment  tell.  For  one  thing,  he  assured 
me,  with  a  most  winning  smile,  that  he 
should  feel  constrained  to  rise  in  church 
and  forbid  the  banns  unless  I  promised  to 
adopt  him  as  a  brother." 

Randolph's  eyes  and  mouth  opened 
again. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  adopt  him  as 
something  still  nearer!"  he  said,  with  a 
pretense  of  anger. 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,"  Constance 
replied  in  a  confidential  tone,  "I  came 
very  near  doing  so.  The  only  reason  I 
did  not  was  that  he  forgot  to  ask  me." 

Randolph  broke  into  a  laugh.  Then 
he  added  in  a  puzzled  tone : 

"Well,  it  beats  everything !  In  all  the 
ten  years  I've  known  him  I've  never 
heard  him  say  as  much  as  that!" 

"I  can't  repeat  all  he  said "  Con- 
stance began  again. 

"What!"  Randolph  cried  with  another 
semblance  of  jealousy. 


Of  Cooking:  Wives.  47 

"No,  because  it  lay  in  his  manner ;  that 
gentle,  affectionate,  yet  manly  manner — 
indescribable!  perfectly  indescribable!" 

"It's  the  same  to  everybody,"  said 
Randolph,  "and  everybody  loves  him.  I 
never  knew  another  such  fellow.  It's 
past  belief  the  way  he  wins  people.  And 
he  says  nothing,  too." 

"Ah,  but  he  does !"  repeated  Constance. 
"Well,  well,  there's  no  telling  it  all.  I 
continually  think  of  the  word  delightful 
in  recurring  to  it  and  him.  I  assured 
him  that  he  would  be  a  member  of  our 
family,  and  that  our  fireside  and  our  crust 
— I  really  didn't  dare  to  promise  more 
than  a  crust,  you  know,  Randolph — 
would  be  his  as  well  as  ours.  When  he 
left  he  said  good-by  in  the  same  perfect- 
ly easy,  natural  way,  calling  me  Con- 
stance  " 

"What?"  Randolph  exclaimed. 

"And  then  he  said,  'I  am  a  brother 
now,  you  know/  and  he  bent  and  kissed 
me." 

"The  dickens!"  cried  Randolph. 

And  Constance  finished  the  sentence. 


48  The  Gentle  Art 

"He  did.  And  really  in  the  most  de- 
lightful way,"  she  added  naively. 

Shortly  after  this  cementing  of  new 
bonds  there  was  a  quiet  wedding  cere- 
mony one  morning  at  the  little  suburban 
church,  and  when  this  was  over  Ran- 
dolph and  Constance  were  ready  for  their 
walk  through  life. 

This  walk — sometimes  quickened  into 
a  jog  trot  and  even  into  a  lope,  some- 
times slackened  till  it  becomes  a  crawl — 
is  variously  diversified,  according  to  the 
temper  and  general  disposition  of  the  par- 
ties. In  the  present  instance  there  was 
reasonable  hope  of  some  harmony  of  gait, 
but  life  is  life,  whether  within  or  without 
the  wedded  fold,  and  "human  natur'  is 
human  natur' ;"  and  although  David 
Harum  may  tell  us  that  some  folks  have 
more  of  this  commodity  than  others,  yet 
we  know  that  every  one  has  a  lump  of 
it,  at  least,  and  usually,  thank  God!  a 
lump  of  leaven  as  well. 

The  first  agitating  question  upon  mar- 
riage is  that  of  residence.  Happily  Ran- 
dolph and  Constance  were  agreed  upon 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  *6 

this  point.  Both  were  indifferent  to  the 
city;  both  were  lovers  of  the  country. 
Randolph  had  once  read  a  certain  sweet 
pastoral  termed  "Liberty  and  a  Living," 
and  hardly  a  day  had  passed  since  the 
reading  that  he  had  not  recalled  it  and 
speculated  as  to  how  he  could  adjust  it  to 
his  own  life. 

The  fact  that  the  writer,  like  himself, 
was  a  journalist;  that  he  broke  loose  from 
just  such  shackles  as  were  wearing  Ran- 
dolph's pleasure  in  life,  made  it  seem 
more  possible  to  the  latter,  and  now  that 
he  had  joined  hands  with  a  woman  of  sim- 
ilar tastes,  the  experiment  seemed  really 
feasible. 

"It's  easy  enough  if  we'll  only  think 
so,"  said  Randolph. 

"It  looks  easy,"  Constance  replied  more 
cautiously;  "that's  one  reason  why  I  am 
afraid  of  it.  That  proves  to  me  that  we 
don't  know  anything  about  it.  If  it  were 
really  so  easy  more  people  would  try  it. 
We're  not  the  only  ones  who  love  the 
country." 

"I  wonder  more  people  don't  try  it," 


50  The  Gentle  Art 

Randolph  exclaimed.  "When  I  look 
around  me  in  the  train  and  see  the  care- 
worn, harassed  faces  the  men  wear,  I 
wonder  they  don't  break  loose  from  their 
drudgery  and  go  to  living.  What's  the 
use  of  existing  if  you  have  to  drudge 
continually  for  your  bread,  and  must  eat 
even  that  in  debt  half  the  time?" 

"We  may  have  to  do  without  bread," 
said  Constance,  smiling. 

"Then  we'll  eat  cake,  as  Marie  Antoi- 
nette suggested,"  Randolph  responded 
promptly. 

There  really  was  some  practical  prep- 
aration for  the  proposed  country  life,  al- 
though many  of  the  plans  seemed  vision- 
ary enough.  Randolph  had  long  been 
considering  an  offer  from  a  local  maga- 
zine that  would  enable  him  to  do  most 
of  his  work  at  home,  but  the  pay  was 
smaller  and  less  certain  than  he  could 
wish.  However,  he  at  last  decided  to  re- 
sign from  the  newspaper  force  with  which 
he  had  for  years  been  connected  and  to 
risk  taking  the  other  position. 

Now,  happily,  he  had  done  good,  faith- 


Of  Cookingf  Wives*  51 

ful  work  in  his  present  place  and  was 
highly  esteemed.  Consequently,  as  soon 
as  the  editor  of  the  paper  learned  why  he 
was  going  and  what  he  wanted,  he  of- 
fered him  the  editorship  of  the  literary 
department  in  the  Saturday  issue,  at  a 
smaller  salary  than  he  had  been  receiv- 
ing, to  be  sure,  but  still  a  larger  and  more 
certain  one  than  he  could  earn  on  the 
magazine,  and  this  he  accepted  and  went 
on  his  way  with  much  rejoicing. 

"I'll  only  have  to  go  into  the  city  once 
a  week  now,"  he  said  to  Constance,  "and 
my  literary  work  at  home  won't  require 
over  three  hours  a  day.  That's  some- 
thing like  living!" 

Constance  was  as  delighted  as  he,  but 
she  was  more  cautious  and  said  less.  She 
once  remarked  in  this  connection  that  she 
intended  to  borrow  a  motto  from  Steve's 
coat  of  arms — "Mum's  the  Word." 

During  the  past  few  years  Randolph's 
expenses  had  been  small  and  his  earnings 
considerable;  consequently  he  had  quite 
a  goodly  sum  in  bank.  With  a  portion 
of  this  he  and  Constance  bought  a  small 


52  The  Gentle  Art 

place  in  the  country,  happening  on  a  gen- 
uine bargain,  as  one  will  if  he  has  cash  in 
hand.  The  house  was  little  more  than  a 
cabin,  and  they  decided  to  devote  it  to 
their  servants — a  married  pair — while 
they  built  a  cottage  for  their  own  use. 

The  latter  deserves  more  than  a  pass- 
ing word.  Both  Randolph  and  Constance 
had  "Liberty  and  a  Living"  in  mind  when 
they  planned  it,  and  although  it  did  not 
precisely  repeat  that  charming  little  domi- 
cile, yet  it  was  built  in  much  the  same 
style.  The  one  big  room — library,  din- 
ing-room, and  sometime  kitchen  com- 
bined— looked  out  from  three  sides.  In 
the  early  morning  it  saw  the  clouds  piled 
up  in  expectant  glory  over  the  way  across 
the  surging  lake ;  toward  evening  its  win- 
dows to  the  left  blazed  their  farewell  as 
day  sailed  into  the  west;  while  golden 
sunbeams  played  at  hide-and-go-seek 
among  its  pretty  furnishings  throughout 
the  midway  hours.  Even  on  cold,  cloudy 
days  there  was  still  good  cheer,  for  a  big 
log  fire  crackled  on  the  ample  hearth  be- 
neath the  oaken  mantel,  whereon  a  glow- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  53 

ing  iron  had  etched  Cowper's  invitation 
(who  could  say  it  nay?)  : 


"  Nor  stir  the  fire  and  close  the  shutters  fast; 

Let  fall  the  curtains ; 

Wheel  the  sofa  round; 

And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 

Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 

That  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 

So  let  us  welcome  cheerful  evening  in." 

The  very  furnishings  of  this  library 
were  intellectually  and  spiritually  appetiz- 
ing. A  large  desk,  off  one  side,  bespoke 
brain  work;  a  solid  center-table,  strewn 
with  books  and  magazines,  made  one  long 
for  the  glow  of  the  big  lamp  and  the  leis- 
ure of  the  evening,  while  Constance's 
grand  piano  seemed  to  stir  the  very  air 
with  a  dream  of  harmony.  The  room 
was  lined  with  low  book-cases;  above 
Shakespeare  stood  his  bust;  above  the 
many  volumes  on  musical  themes,  busts 
of  Beethoven  and  Wagner;  pictures — not 
costly  paintings,  but  engravings,  photo- 
gravures, and  etchings,  scenes  from  other 
lands,  sweet  spiritual  faces,  suggestions 


54  The  Gentle  Art 

of  great  lives — looked  down  from  the 
walls;  while  over  all,  as  a  frieze  to  the 
oaken  room,  ran  the  words:  "Tis  love 
that  makes  the  world  go  round." 

To  Steve  Loveland  this  home  seemed 
more  like  Paradise  than  mortal  abode. 
He  watched  its  building  and  making  with 
as  intense  an  interest  as  Randolph's  and 
with  far  more  of  sentiment.  Marriage 
to  him  meant  Elysium — the  inexpressible, 
the  unattainable ;  more  so  than  ever  now. 
But  whatever  yearnings  the  sweet  little 
nest  awoke  in  the  breast  of  this  lonely 
outsider,  his  duty  and  purpose  remained 
fixed. 

In  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  the  grapes 
hung  in  luscious  bunches  on  the  slender 
vine ;  when  country  by-lanes  were  mellow 
with  a  wealth  of  sumach  and  maple  color- 
ing; when  Nature  was  saying  farewell  in 
her  own  sweet  way,  at  once  so  festive  and 
so  melancholy,  *then  Constance  and  Ran- 
dolph turned  their  backs  on  the  din  and 
confusion  of  the  city,  and  seeking  the 
happy  woodlands,  entered  their  own  little 
home. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  55 

On  that  very  same  day  Steve  received 
a  summons  to  his  sister,  who  lived  with 
her  mother  in  the  little  country  town. 
There  he  was  witness  to  a  short,  sharp 
contest  with  pneumonia;  then  came  a  de- 
feat; and  then  a  quiet  burial  in  the  vil- 
lage churchyard;  next  a  sinking  from 
hour  to  hour  of  the  invalid  mother  whose 
prop  and  stay  had  been  taken  from  be- 
neath her;  a  second  calling  of  friends  to 
the  stricken  home;  and  ere  two  weeks  of 
absence  had  been  told,  Steve  found  him- 
self alone  in  the  world,  as  far  as  any  near 
of  kin  were  concerned. 

His  grief  was  quiet,  but  very  poignant. 
The  old  bachelor  lodgings  became  unen- 
durable. Randolph  had  gone  to  a  home 
of  his  own,  and  Steve  could  not  sit  there 
alone,  listening  to  the  clods  of  earth  as 
they  fell  on  mother  and  Mary. 

Both  Randolph  and  Constance  stretched 
out  tender,  sympathizing  hands  to  the 
lonely  man,  and  would  have  been  glad 
had  he  consented  to  widen  their  fireside 
circle  by  his  presence,  but  beyond  an  occa- 
sional visit  Steve  did  not  feel  that  he 


56  The  Gentle  Art 

could  go  to  them.  He  had  long  been  in- 
dependent— he  was  over  thirty  now,  and 
he  was  not  ready  to  merge  his  life  into  the 
life  of  another  household.  Still  less  was 
he  willing  to  intrude  his  continued  pres- 
ence upon  a  newly  married  couple.  The 
life  there  was  sacred  to  him,  and  although 
he  felt  himself  next  of  kin,  almost,  to  its 
inmates,  he  shrank  from  robbing  them  of 
their  right  to  be  alone. 

Go  somewhere  he  must,  however,  so 
he  gathered  a  few  of  his  effects  and  pre- 
pared for  a  flitting — where  he  hardly 
knew  when  he  set  out,  but  he  chanced  to 
alight  in  the  domicile  of  some  elderly 
friends,  who  were  delighted  to  give  him 
house  and  table  room  in  their  rather  soli- 
tary home. 

It  chanced  that  Steve's  new  rookery 
(he  was  in  the  fourth  story)  was  quite 
near  Mrs.  Lament's  handsome  house,  and 
Mrs.  Lament  was  the  aunt  of  Nannie 
Branscome — bewitching,  provoking,  mad- 
dening Nannie  Branscome;  uncured,  un- 
baked, indigestible  little  Nannie  Brans- 
come — and  they  met,  to  quote  from  Kate 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  57 

Douglas  Wiggin,  "every  once  in  so 
often." 

Careless,  irresponsible  Nannie  Brans- 
come!  growing  wild  in  the  garden. 

But  the  cook  was  near  at  hand  and  the 
fire  was  lighted. 

What  manner  of  cook?  A  chef  or  a 
stupid  mixer  of  messes  ? 

Who  knows? 


58  The  Gentle  Art 


IV 

IT  was  bleak  and  drear.  A  raw,  angry 
wind  came  out  of  the  north  and  went  rag- 
ing through  the  woods,  tearing  the  pretty 
clothing  of  the  trees  to  pieces  and  rudely 
hurling  the  dust  of  the  street  in  one's  face. 
The  sun  got  behind  the  clouds  and  in 
grief  and  dismay  hid  his  face  while  this 
dismal  looting  went  on  unrebuked  and  un- 
restrained. But  Nature  is  fickle,  possi- 
bly because  she  is  feminine.  At  all 
events,  she  can  change  both  mind  and 
conduct,  and  in  short  order.  So  ere  long 
she  came  out  of  her  November  rage  and 
sat  down  in  still,  mellow  sunshine,  and 
gathering  her  children  about  her,  whis- 
pered beautiful  stories  in  their  ears; 
warmed  them  with  her  love  and  bright- 
ness; soothed  their  care-lined  brows  and 
filled  their  hearts  with  a  sense  of  the  near- 
ness of  the  Giver  of  all  good. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  59 

It  was  on  one  of  these  days  of  Indian 
summer  that  Steve  cut  loose  from  work 
and  started  off  on  a  tramp.  He  worked 
in  town ;  he  rested  in  country. 

He  had  put  something  like  five  miles  of 
woodland  and  late  fall  meadow  between 
himself  and  the  distractions  of  city  life, 
when  looking  adown  a  path  that  sloped 
gently  to  a  brook  he  saw,  sitting  on  a  tree 
that  lay  athwart  the  stream  and  paddling 
her  white  feet  in  the  sunny  water,  Nannie 
Branscome.  His  surprise  robbed  him  of 
his  reserve  and  he  hastened  to  her. 

"Are  you  lost,  Miss  Branscome  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  calmly. 

She  still  sat  there,  paddling  her  feet, 
with  nothing  of  consternation  or  perplex- 
ity in  her  face  or  manner.  All  around 
her  were  the  browns  of  a  summer  that 
had  come  and  gone;  heaps  of  dead  leaves 
nestled  close  to  the  trees,  mute  witnesses 
of  a  lost  beauty;  while  here  and  there  an 
ox-eyed  daisy  glowed  from  out  its  som- 
ber company  as  a  firefly  shines  through 
the  dusk  of  twilight.  In  the  midst  of  all 
this  sat  Nannie  in  her  pretty  suit  trimmed 


60  The  Gentle  Art 

in  scarlet,  looking  like  a  bird  of  paradise 
amid  a  flock  of  sparrows  and  other  sober- 
ly clad  creatures.  Indeed,  she  reminded 
one  of  a  bird,  with  her  head  cocked  on  one 
side  and  her  air — not  bold,  but  saucy. 

Steve  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  creek, 
perplexed  for  a  moment.  Then  he  asked 
with  a  slight  smile : 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

The  girl  lowered  her  head  a  trifle  and 
looked  out  at  him  from  'neath  her  curls, 
but  she  said  nothing. 

"Let  us  go  home,  Miss  Branscome." 

She  continued  looking  at  him  without 
a  word,  and  he  returned  her  gaze  as  he 
stood  there  with  a  gentle  dignity  that  had 
its  effect  upon  her. 

"Barefooted?"  she  asked. 

"No.  I  am  going  to  explore  this  creek 
for  a  little  distance,  and  you  can  get  ready 
while  I'm  gone." 

"But  suppose  my  shoes  and  stockings 
have  floated  down  the  stream?  What 
then?" 

Steve  was  dismayed,  but  he  maintained 
his  quiet  air. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  61 

"Suppose,"  persisted  Nannie. 

Just  then  Steve  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
tiny  shoe  at  the  foot  of  a  near  tree. 

"And  suppose,"  he  said,  "they  have  not, 
but  are  awaiting  their  owner  over  yon- 
der?" 

Nannie  laughed  and  looked  around  and 
Steve  walked  on. 

When  he  returned  she  was  ready,  and 
they  set  off  together  toward  town. 

"Were  you  really  lost?"  asked  Steve. 

"Yes.  I've  been  pandering  around 
for  at  least  two  hours.'* 

"How  came  you  to  go  out  there?"  he 
asked. 

"I  was  expected  to  go  somewhere 
else,"  she  answered  with  one  of  her  elfin 
looks. 

Steve  was  silent.  Mentally  he  was; 
wondering  if  this  was  the  mainspring  of 
conduct  in  all  women.  He  thought  very 
likely  it  was.  Mary  often  asked  his  ad- 
vice and  then  always  took  her  own  way, 
and  it  was  invariably  opposite  to  the 
course  he  had  indicated. 

They    had    not    gone    much    further, 


G2  The  Gentle  Art 

when,  happening  to  look  around  for 
something,  Nannie  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  dress  skirt  and  saw  that  it  was 
creased  and  stained  with  mud. 

"There  now!  I've  just  ruined  my 
gown!"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  burst 
into  passionate  tears. 

"Miss  Branscome!  don't!"  said  Steve, 
who  was  fairly  startled  out  of  his  usual 
quiet  into  something  akin  to  excitement. 
"Don't!  I  beg  of  you.  Nannie!  don't 
cry,  my  dear!" 

He  failed  to  notice  how  he  had  spoken ; 
so  did  she,  apparently. 

"We  can  make  it  all  right,  I  know,"  he 
continued,  but  for  a  time  she  refused  to 
be  comforted. 

"You  would  cry  too,  I  guess,  if  you 
were  in  my  place  and  would  get  such  an 
awful  scolding  at  home." 

"No  doubt  I  would,"  assented  Steve  in 
deep  distress. 

"I  wish  I  were  dead  and  buried  under 
a  landslide,"  sobbed  Nannie. 

In  the  depth  of  her  sorrow  she  wanted 
to  delve  deep  into  mother  earth. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  63 

"Oh,  no.  Don't  wish  that!  What 
should  we  do  without  you?"  said  Steve 
earnestly. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  to-  worry,"  replied 
Nannie  pettishly,  the  violence  of  her  grief 
having  spent  itself.  "Nothing  so  good 
as  that  is  going  to  happen.  I  shall  live 
to  get  home  and  have  my  head  taken  off, 
and  stalk  around  as  a  torso  ever  after- 
ward." 

"Now  do  let  me  see  if  I  can't  set  things 
to  rights,"  said  Steve.  "You've  no  idea 
how  handy  I  am  in  such  matters." 

He  proved  the  truth  of  his  words  by 
going  to  work  upon  the  injured  gown, 
and  after  patient  effort  bringing  it  out  of 
its  dilapidated  condition  in  such  shape 
that  only  a  keen  eye  would  detect  any  sign 
of  mishap. 

Nannie  was  delighted  and,  stimulated 
by  the  excitement  attendant  upon  her 
rapid  change  of  fortunes,  became  quite 
talkative. 

"I  wouldn't  have  minded  it  so  much, 
but  I  have  on  one  of  my  best  gowns,  and 
Aunt  Frances  makes  such  a  fuss  every 


64  The  Gentle  Art 

time  she  has  to  buy  me  anything.  She 
says  it's  of  no  use  to  spend  on  me.  It 
don't  amount  to  a  row  of  pins." 

Steve  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  In 
actual  time  he  was  many  years  her  senior, 
but  Nannie  had  been  in  society  for  a  sea- 
son now,  and  even  young  girls  age  fast 
there — too  fast,  by  far. 

"She  means  I  don't  bid  fair  to  get  mar- 
ried off  well.  I'm  not  very  popular,  you 
know." 

Still  Steve  was  silent.  Nannie  was 
speaking  in  a  language  of  which  he  was 
ignorant. 

"I  dressed  this  morning  to  go  to  Joe 
Harding's  breakfast,  but  I  hate  him,  and 
I  went  walking  instead.  Now  I've  got 
to  see  some  of  the  girls  who  went  and 
make  up  a  lot  of  stuff  about  it  at  home, 
or  Aunt  Frances'll  be  awfully  mad." 

Steve  looked  into  the  beautiful  face  of 
the  young  girl  who  was  talking  in  this 
repellent  fashion.  Then  he  took  her 
gently  by  the  hand  and  said  in  a  firm, 
kindly  tone : 

"Nannie,  you  must  come  out  of  all 
this." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  65 

"How  can  I  ?"  she  asked.  "I  have  no 
mother  or  father — no  one  who  really 
cares.  I  suppose  I'll  marry  Joe  Harding 
some  day.  He  wants  me,  and  Aunt 
Frances  keeps  at  me  about  it  eternally, 
but  I  hate  him." 

"You  must  not  marry  him,"  said  Steve 
firmly.  "He  is  not  a  good  man." 

"And  he's  awfully  ugly,  too,  but  he's 
rich,  and  he's  one  of  the  swell  set.  Ugh ! 
but  I  do  hate  him !" 

"Why  are  you  going  to  marry  him  ?" 

"Why?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him 
with  straight,  frank  surprise.  "I've  got 
to.  Nobody  else  wants  me." 

The  pettish  look  had  passed  from  her 
face;  so  also  had  the  world-wise  expres- 
sion. There  was  something  in  her  pres- 
ent naive  frankness  that  prevented  it 
from  seeming  bold. 

As  he  looked  at  her  swift  images  of 
love  and  marriage  flitted  across  his  brain. 
Somehow  his  loneliness  was  borne  in 
upon  him,  and  with  this  realization  there 
came  as  a  sudden  flash  the  consciousness 
that  he  could  marry.  Long  ago  he  had 


66  The  Gentle  Art 

put  all  this  one  side,  and  in  his  grief  over 
the  loss  of  mother  and  sister  it  had  never 
once  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  free. 
The  knowledge  almost  overwhelmed  him 
now,  and  in  his  bewilderment  for  the 
moment  he  lost  sight  of  his  ideal.  Like 
most  reticent  men,  he  cherished  an  ideal. 
Since  meeting  Constance  Leigh,  uncon- 
sciously to  himself  that  ideal  had  grown 
very  like  her.  But  now  he  was  sitting 
beside  a  fascinating  young  girl — for  fas- 
cinating she  was  to  Steve,  even  in  her 
brusqueness  and  plainness  of  speech;  a 
mere  child,  as  it  were,  who  was  without 
home  and  without  the  protection  of  love 
and  parental  care,  and  as  he  looked  into 
her  eyes,  still  wet  with  tears,  he  felt  his 
heart  go  out  to  her. 

"Listen  to  me,  Nannie,"  he  said,  tak- 
ing her  hand  once  more.  "I  am  a  very 
lonely  man.  I  need  a  wife " 

"Come,  ducky,  come  and  be  killed," 
flashed  through  Nannie's  mind. 

"I  think  you  need  me  and  I'm  sure  I 
need  you." 

"How?"  thought  Nannie;  "fricasseed 
or  boiled?" 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  67 

"If  you  would  let  me  I  would  take  you 
and  try " 

"Fry,  you  mean,"  said  Nannie  mentally 
as  he  hesitated. 

Then  with  a  sudden  whirl,  peculiar  to 
her  gusty  temperament,  she  said  to  her- 
self: 

"He's  proposing,  and  I  needn't  marry 
that  hideous  creature !" 

She  caught  her  breath  and  pressed  her 
hands  together. 

"Oh,  if  only  I  could  escape  from  Joe 
Harding!"  she  exclaimed. 

Something  very  holy  in  Steve's  nature 
came  up  then  and  changed  the  man.  No 
longer  shy,  no  longer  reserved,  he  bent 
toward  Nannie  without  touching  her  and 
said: 

"My  dear,  marriage  is  a  gate  at  once 
solemn  and  beautiful.  When  it  is  used 
as  a  door  of  escape  it  opens  into  a  dark 
forest  abounding  with  terrible  wild  beasts 
and  hideous  crawling  things,  but  if  one 
opens  it  with  love's  key,  I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  leads  to,  for  I  have  never  been 
there,  but  I  believe  it  is  the  gateway  to  the 


68  The  Gentle  Ail 

Elysium  fields  that  lie  just  on  the  hither 
side  of  heaven." 

Nannie  looked  up  into  the  grave  eyes 
and  saw  something  of  tenderness,  some- 
thing of  reverence  there  that  was  new  to 
her.  She  had  stepped  into  an  unknown 
world  and  was  awed.  As  she  sat  there 
all  mockery  and  levity  faded  from  her 
face,  and  in  its  place  there  crept  a  look  of 
deep  admiration  and  deep  respect  for  this 
man,  and  something  awoke  in  her  soul. 

She  said  not  a  word — she  had  no  words 
for  such  as  this — but  by  and  by  she  put 
her  hand  into  Steve's. 

"For  life,  Nannie?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  burst  into  tears. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  69 


A  LOVER'S  ecstasy  is  ofttimes  cut  short 
by  the  reflection  that  he  has  yet  to  face 
that  awful  bugbear — the  old  folk. 
There  is  something  terrible  about  age,  it 
would  seem,  not  only  to  its  possessor,  but 
even  to  those  who  must  encounter  it 
second  hand,  and  Steve  was  not  without 
his  qualms.  Although  in  his  wooing  he 
had  not  for  one  moment  lost  his  gentle 
self-possession,  he  had  entirely  forgotten 
about  the  ordeal  of  an  interview  with 
Nannie's  guardians  until  she  reminded 
him  by  saying  with  an  impish  chuckle: 

"Won't  Aunt  Frances  be  happy  when 
she  hears  of  this !" 

"Is  she  anxious  that  you  should 
marry?"  asked  Steve  with  some  wonder. 

Nannie  looked  at  him  with  wide  eyes 
for  a  moment.  It  seemed  hardly  possi- 
ble that  one  could  be  so  dull  of  compre- 


70  The  Gentle  Art 

hension,  and  yet  there  was  no  doubting 
Steve's  grave,  earnest  expression. 

"Yes,"  was  her  only  reply,  but  in- 
wardly she  was  convulsed  with  laughter 
as  she  looked  ahead  and  in  thought 
rapidly  sketched  a  scene. 

And  so  Steve  walked  up  to  his  task 
with  but  a  faint  conception  of  its  magni- 
tude. 

"I  have  called,  Mrs.  Lamont,"  he  said 
in  his  easy,  gentlemanly  way,  "to  ask  for 
the  hand  of  your  niece.  Nannie  and  I 
have  had  a  little  talk  about  it  and  under- 
stand each  other,  I  think,  and  now  we 
await  your  consent." 

"You  surely  don't  expect  my  consent," 
said  Mrs.  Lamont. 

Steve's  shyness  and  gentleness  seemed 
to  return  to  him. 

"I  really,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "had 
not  thought  of  any  reason  why  we  should 
not  have  it." 

"Mr.  Loveland — well,  this  is  intensely 
trying  to  me.  You've  no  idea,  I  am  sure, 
how  I  dislike  to  be  so  plain;  but  can  you 
not  understand  that  you  are  hardly  a  suit- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  71 

able  match  for  Nannie?  You  are  very 
poor,  I  believe." 

"Why,  no,"  said  Steve  gently. 

He  had  a  good  position  on  a  daily 
paper  and  his  mother's  little  property  had 
been  disposed  of  to  advantage,  so  that  he 
had  several  thousand  in  bank  now.  To 
him,  with  his  small  needs  and  quiet  tastes, 
this  seemed  like  wealth. 

"Oh,  why  will  you  force  me  to  such 
brutal  plainness!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  La- 
mont  impatiently.  "Really  this  inter- 
view will  make  me  ill." 

"It  may  indeed,"  said  Steve. 

He  had  no  thought  of  sarcasm. 

"Mr.  Loveland,  this  is  a  business  mat- 
ter. We  must  understand  each  other. 
You  have  property,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  now ;  it  was  sold." 

"What  do  you  own,  may  I  ask?  Oh, 
isn't  it  fearful  to  have  to  talk  so!  But  I 
must  lead  you  to  see  things  clearly." 

"I  have  forty-five  hundred  dollars  in 
bank  and  a  good  situation,"  said  Steve, 
with  a  feeling  that  he  was  turning  his  life 
inside  out  under  a  stranger's  gaze  and 


72  The  Gentle  Art 

had  returned  to  barbarism  and  was  buy- 
ing Nannie. 

"Bringing  you  what,  may  I  ask?" 

"A  hundred  and  twenty-five  a  month." 

Mrs.  Lament  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Why,  my  dear  sir — excuse  me,  but 
that  would  not  suffice  to  keep  Nannie's 
carriage,  let  alone  herself." 

"Must  she  have  a  carriage?"  asked 
Steve  with  a  lengthening  face. 

"As  a  matter  of  course !  Would  you 
expect  her  to  walk?" 

Several  things  flashed  through  Steve's 
bewildered  brain.  Until  to-day  he  had 
always  met  Nannie  in  her  own  or  some 
other  parlor.  She  had  walked  to-day,  it 
is  true,  but  perhaps  she  ought  not  to  have 
done  so.  He  remembered  that  when  he 
saw  her  feet  as  she  was  paddling  in  the 
brook  he  thought  them  wonderfully 
small.  He  also  recalled  the  fact  that 
Chinese  women  of  rank  have  very  small 
feet  and  cannot  walk;  possibly  Nannie 
was  in  a  similar  predicament. 

"Is  she  deformed?"  he  gasped. 

And  then  Mrs.  Lamont  put  her  hand- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  73 

kerchief  to  her  face  and  wept  for  vexa- 
tion. 

Meanwhile  Steve  sat  there,  bewildered 
and  distressed.  He  had  come  to  expect 
this  sort  of  conduct  from  women  in  gen- 
eral, but  it  was  harrowing.  His  poor  in- 
valid mother  often  wept ;  Mary  had  cried 
now  and  then,  poor  worn-out  girl;  and 
last  week,  when  he  was  at  her  house,  even 
Constance  had  burst  into  tears  when 
Randolph  tried  to  explain  something  to 
her;  Nannie  had  cried  that  day,  and  now 
Mrs.  Lament  was  weeping. .  No  doubt 
it  was  a  sort  of  melancholy  punctuation 
mark  in  vogue  with  the  sex. 

"Evidently  we  speak  different  lan- 
guages, and  it  is  an  almost  hopeless  task 
to  try  to  explain,"  said  the  lady  at  length ; 
"but  Nannie's  interests  are  at  stake,  and 
I  must  attempt  it." 

She  knew  only  too  well  how  futile  it 
would  be  to  try  to  influence  Nannie.  If 
this  affair  were  ended  it  must  be  by  Steve. 

"Can  you  not  see,"  she  continued,  em- 
phasizing every  word  and  speaking  in  a 
hard,  metallic  tone,  "that  Nannie's  posi- 


74  The  Gentle  Art 

tion  in  society  calls  for  certain  expendi- 
tures which  are  far  beyond  your  means? 
As  a  woman  of  fashion  she  will  be  ob- 
liged to  keep  a  carriage  and  maintain  a 
style  of  living  which  would  eat  up  your 
monthly  salary  in  half  a  day.  She  has  a 
suitor  of  abundant  means,  a  millionaire 
several  times  over — Mr.  Harding.  He  is 
infatuated  with  her  and  he  will  give  her 
everything  she  can  desire." 

"But  he  is  a  very  bad  man,"  said  Steve 
simply. 

"Oh,  well — really,  Mr.  Loveland, 
please  don't  push  me  into  a  discussion  of 
such  matters.  Few  men  are  saints,  and 
I  think  he'll  make  a  good  husband.  He 
is  very  rich  and  he  moves  in  the  best  cir- 
cles." 

"Does  Nannie  love  him?"  asked  Steve, 
and  his  voice  and  manner  had  changed. 
He  spoke  very  firmly. 

"Mr.  Loveland,  you  exhaust  me! 
Some  of  us  who  have  reached  maturity 
have  the  good  sense  to  provide  for 
material  advantages  and  take  the  rest  for 
granted." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  75 

"If  Nannie  loves  Mr.  Harding  and 
wishes  me  to  withdraw  in  his  favor,  I  will 
do  so." 

"I  don't !"  said  a  curt  voice,  and  looking 
around  with  a  start,  Mrs.  Lament  beheld 
her  dutiful  niece  between  the  portieres. 

For  a  moment  nothing  was  said,  but 
Nannie's  appearance  did  not  portend 
peace.  Her  eyes  looked  out  wickedly 
from  beneath  her  curls,  and  her  impish 
mouth  was  pursed  up  in  an  expression 
already  familiar  to  her  aunt. 

"Leave  the  room  instantly!"  cried 
Mrs.  Lament  at  last  with  rising  anger. 

"I  won't!"  said  Nannie  shortly. 

"Then  I  will  teach  you  that  I  also  can 
be  firm.  I  command  you  to  break  off  this 
foolish,  insane  affair  at  once." 

"I  won't!"  said  Nannie. 

"Ungrateful  minx!"  cried  Mrs.  La- 
mont.  "Here  I  have  dressed  you  all 
these  years  and  gone  to  no  end  of  other 
expense,  and  this  is  how  you  repay  me." 

"It  is,"  said  Nannie. 

Now,  Mrs.  Lament  was  a  shrewd, 
worldly  woman,  and  she  took  in  the  situ-- 


76  The  Gentle  Art 

ation  fully.  She  realized  that  Nannie 
would  hold  to  her  own  course.  She  also 
realized  that  arguments  such  as  hers  were 
without  weight  with  Steve.  These  two, 
then,  would  marry  for  all  she  could  say 
or  do,  for  Nannie  was  just  come  of  age. 
Now  she  had  already  strained  her  means 
to  provide  for  the  fashionable  necessities 
of  Nannie's  debut  and  society  life,  and  she 
dreaded  her  wedding.  Had  the  child 
married  well,  however,  all  the  monetary 
effort  attendant  upon  the  occasion  could 
have  been  repaid  afterward — all  that  and 
more;  but  now  to  have  an  outlay  and  no 
return — that  was  too  much!  She  would 
avert  it. 

"I  can  do  nothing  with  this  saucy,  im- 
pudent girl,  this  ungrateful  creature,  but 
I  appeal  to  you,"  she  said  to  Steve,  "to  let 
her  come  to  her  senses." 

It  was  Mrs.  Lament,  he  thought,  who 
was  worse  than  mad  to  try  to  force  a 
young  girl  into  an  odious  marriage,  and 
Nannie's  rebellion  seemed  justifiable  to 
him,  unused  though  he  himself  was  to  de- 
fying any  one. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  77 

"Nannie  and  I  have  decided,"  he  said 
quietly.  "I  regret  that  you  feel  so." 

"You  shall  never  be  married  from  this 
house!"  cried  the  aunt. 

"We  can  go  elsewhere,"  said  Steve,  not 
realizing  that  he  was  walking  into  a  net. 

"And  you  may  expect  a  bitter  time 
after  this  conduct,  miss,"  she  added. 

"Mrs.  Lament,"  said  Steve,  stepping 
forward  and  taking  Nannie's  little  hand  in 
his,  "you  will  force  us  to  an  earlier  mar- 
riage than  we  had  contemplated." 

And  now  Steve  was  well  in  the  toils  of 
the  net,  and  this  was  how  it  happened  that 
Mrs.  Lament  was  spared  further  expense 
for  her  willful  niece,  and  that  Steve  all 
but  took  Randolph's  and  Constance's 
breath  away  by  inviting  them  to  a  very 
quiet  wedding  which  was  to  take  place  at 
a  church  one  morning  about  a  week  after 
this  stormy  scene,  and  society  buzzed  like 
a  bee  over  the  elopement,  as  it  called  it, 
and  so  forth,  and  so  on,  and  all  at  once 
in  the  midst  of  the  distractions  Nannie 
caught  her  breath  and  cried  out : 

"Why,  goodness  me!     I'm  married!" 


78  The  Gentle  Art 

And  Steve  received  the  news  with 
almost  equal  dismay. 

Really,  if  the  Shah  of  Persia  had  pre- 
sented this  gentleman  with  a  white  ele- 
phant, with  long  flowing  trunk  and  two 
tails — three  or  four  tails,  in  fact — and 
this  little  gift  had  been  brought  up  to  his 
room  on  a  silver  salver  (always  supposing 
that  were  possible)  he  could  not  have  felt 
much  more  nonplussed  as  to  its  proper  dis- 
posal and  care  than  he  did  when  he  sud- 
denly came  out  of  a  dream  to  realize  he 
had  a  wife  on  his  hands. 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  live,  my  dear?" 
he  asked  in  a  tone  that  might  imply  that 
he  had  all  Europe  and  America  to  draw 
from  as  a  place  of  residence. 

He  was  rather  expecting  Nannie  to  say 
that  she  wished  to  reside  on  Calumet 
Avenue  and  to  have  a  coach  and  four  pur- 
chased that  very  day. 

But  nothing  could  surprise  him  now,  so 
he  received  her  abrupt  answer  calmly. 

"I  want  to  live  in  the  country,  near 
Mrs.  Chance." 

Happily  this  wish  was  not  impossible 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  79 

of  fulfillment,  so  Steve  at  once  consulted 
his  friends,  and  after  much  walking  about 
(Nannie  could  walk)  and  much  discus- 
sion, the  four  agreed  upon  a  small  dove- 
cote of  a  place  about  a  mile  from  Ran- 
dolph's and  Constance's  home — a  dear 
little  cottage  with  enough  land  about  it 
to  raise  anything  and  everything. 

Nannie  was  like  a  child  with  a  new  toy, 
and  her  delight  lent  her  a  hundred  little 
airs  and  graces  that  would  only  have  pro- 
voked Mrs.  Lament  had  she  seen  them. 
She  always  said  that  the  child  was  rude 
and  stupid  in  society  where  she  should 
have  done  her  best,  and  only  fascinating 
with  people  who  could  be  of  no  earthly 
use  to  her. 

And  now  the  little  kitchen  was  set  up, 
the  fire  was  burning  briskly,  the  cook  was 
at  hand,  and  the  delectable,  indigestible 
material  was  ready  for  the  spit. 


80  The  Gentle  Art 


VI 


WHY  people  born  and  bred  for  city  life 
will  take  to  the  woods;  why  people 
shapen,  as  it  were,  for  the  plow  will  fly 
to  town,  and  men  built  for  a  naval  gait 
will  attempt  to  sit  in  high  places  on  shore, 
is  one  of  those  elusive  problems  that  are 
forever  defying  solution.  We  only  know 
that  such  things  exist,  and  a  few  of  us 
come  up  and  have  a  crack  at  them,  as  it 
were,  and  fail  to  make  the  slightest  im- 
pression on  their  thick  skulls.  And  still 
the  wonder  grows.  Now  it  is  a  naval 
hero  come  ashore  from  seas  where  he  was 
master  of  the  situation,  laden  with  honors 
and  refulgent  with  glory  sufficient  for  the 
lifetime  of  ten  reasonable  men,  who 
straightway  begins  to  covet  a  chair  of 
whose  very  shape  and  proportions  he  is 
ignorant,  and  in  which  he  can  only  be  con- 
spicuous as  a  melancholy  misfit.  .O  Hero- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  81 

ism !  why  failest  thou  to  reach  the  judg- 
ment? O  Glory!  why  canst  thou  not 
touch  up  the  common  sense?  Anon  we 
have  a  yeoman  who  has  struck  oil  and  has 
been  thrown  up  on  high  by  its  monetary 
power,  forsaking  the  obscure  nook  for 
which  nature  shaped  him  and  attempting 
to  sit  in  our  drawing-room,  eat  at  our 
dinner-table,  and  obtrude  his  rich  vulgar- 
ity upon  gentler  guests. 

It  was  in  accordance  with  this  lament- 
able fashion  of  undertaking  that  for  which 
they  have  no  gift;  this  rushing  in  of  cer- 
tain folk  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  that 
Steve  turned  farmer.  Not  that  he  gave 
up  his  situation  on  the  paper.  Ah,  no ! 
He  tried  to  be  that  which  no  man  could 
be  successfully  without  supernatural  aid — 
journalist  and  farmer  both.  His  work  in 
the  city  had  for  some  time  been  such  that 
he  could  do  much  of  it  in  his  room  if  he 
chose;  indeed,  there  were  times — a  day, 
occasionally — when  it  was  not  necessary 
to  go  near  the  office.  Consequently  when 
he  repaired  to  the  country  with  his  unique 
wife,  he  thought  his  affairs  were  admira- 
bly adapted  to  a  dual  existence. 


82  The  Gentle  Art 

It  was  in  the  merry  month  of  April 
when  they  landed.  I  use  the  latter  term 
advisedly,  for  they  were  indeed  upon  a 
foreign  shore.  All  about  them  Naturt 
was  giving  evidence  of  a  present  awaken- 
ing from  her  long  nap.  With  her  quick 
ening  circulation  there  was  increased 
warmth,  and  in  this  the  snow  speedily 
slipped  away.  A  chorus  of  songsters 
came  out  to  greet  the  newly  wedded  pair, 
and  sang  so  sweetly  of  love  that  Steve's 
delicate,  sensitive  nature  thrilled  in  re- 
sponse. Nannie  listened  and  looked  at 
them  askance,  but  to  her  they  spoke,  like 
our  opera  singers,  in  a  foreign  tongue. 

Now,  this  breaking  Steve  from  off  his 
natural  tree  and  grafting  him  upon  an 
alien  bough  occasioned  some  changes. 
From  being  cheerful,  slow,  and  gentle  he 
suddenly  became  anxious,  hasty,  and  at 
times  dictatorial. 

"You  must  have  a  garden,"  one  of  his 
neighbors  said. 

Steve  went  to  work  like  a  galley  slave 
upon  his  spare  days,  and  dug,  and  raked, 
and  planted. 


Of  Cooking  Wives,  83 

"You  must  keep  bees,"  said  another  of 
the  neighbors. 

Steve  bought  two  hives  at  once. 

"You  must  keep  chickens,"  said  another 
neighbor,  a  sort  of  two-edged  woman, 
who  dwelt  over  across  the  swamp  and 
whose  scolding  voice  could  be  heard  for 
miles. 

So  Steve  bought  thirteen  hens  and  a 
rooster. 

"You  must  have  a  cow,"  said  a  fourth 
neighbor,  and  he  promptly  sold  Steve  a 
cantankerous  beast  that  wanted  to  rival 
him  in  authority,  and  indeed  for  a  time 
ran  the  place. 

"You  must  have  a  cat,"  said  an  old 
woman  who  wanted  to  get  rid  of  an  un- 
amiable  Thomas,  and  Steve  brought  him 
home  in  a  sack  caterwauling  all  the  way. 

"You  must  get  a  dog,"  said  a  man  who 
had  a  bull  terrier  for  sale. 

"I've  got  one !"  bawled  Steve — the  man 
was  deaf. 

"Bull  terrier?" 

"No,  Scotch !  and  he's  all  I  want !"  and 
Steve  closed  the  front  door  with  needless 
vigor. 


84  The  Gentle  Art 

"What  did  you  buy  those  nasty  hens 
for?"  asked  Nannie,  who  did  not  like 
chickens. 

"Oh,-  they'll  give  us  something  good  to 
eat.  It  will  be  so  nice  to  go  out  every 
morning  and  bring  in  some  new-laid  eggs 
for  breakfast.  You'll  like  to  do  that, 
Nannie." 

"I  guess  you'd  better,"  she  said  with  a 
peculiar  look. 

So  the  next  morning  Steve  tiptoed  out, 
through  the  wet  grass,  to  the  hen-house, 
in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  he  was 
so  eager  to  pluck  this  new  fruit. 

He  came  in  empty-handed,  but  cheerful. 

"We  could  hardly  expect  them  to  lay 
the  first  day;  they  have  got  to  get  their 
bearings." 

Every  morning  before  breakfast  Steve 
took  this  little  walk.  There  was  soon  a 
well-beaten  track  between  the  back  door 
and  the  hen-house.  He  always  returned 
empty-handed,  and  Nannie  watched  with 
an  impish  smile  from  an  upper  window. 

One  morning  she  came  upon  him  in  the 
act  of  taking  off  a  white  door-knob. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  85 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  demanded. 

He  looked  guilty,  but  answered  with  a 
fair  show  of  spirit : 

"I'm  going  to  put  this  in  one  of  the 
nests.  You  see,  they  must  think  a  hen 
has  been  there  and  laid  it." 

Nannie  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  waste  time  eating  the 
eggs  of  hens  that  would  be  such  fools  as 
to  think  any  poor  old  chicken  had  laid  that 
door-knob !" 

But  Steve  put  it  in,  nevertheless. 

^And  still  morning  after  morning,  with 
lowered  head  and  dragging  footstep, 
he  returned  to  the  house  alone — still 
alone;  not  so  much  as  a  single  egg  as 
companion. 

Then  it  was  that  a  pair  of  imp-like, 
black  eyes  danced  'neath  the  careless  ring- 
lets above  them. 

"How  would  you  like  your  door-knob 
this  morning — hard  or  soft?" 

This  raillery  went  on  day  after  day  un- 
til even  Steve — gentle,  patient  Steve  had 
enough. 

He  looked  up  at  the  window  and  said 
quietly,  but  firmly : 


86  The  Gentle  Art 

"There,  Nannie,  drop  it,  if  you  please." 

"On  toast?"  she  screamed,  and  Steve 
went  into  the  house. 

But  his  triumph  was  near  at  hand,  for 
one  morning,  about  four  weeks  after  he 
had  bought  the  chickens,  he  discovered 
something  besides  the  door-knob  in  one  of 
the  nests,  and  forthwith  came  strutting 
toward  the  house,  holding  the  egg  on 
high  that  Nannie  might  see  it  from  the 
window  of  her  room. 

Hearing  no  noise  he  looked  up.  Was 
she  dead?  Ah,  no!  There  she  sat, 
straining  her  eyes  through  a  field-glass  to 
see  the  yield  of  his  first  month. 

"Mix  well,"  she  called  to  him,  "thirteen 
hens,  one  rooster,  one  door-knob,  and  one 
month,  and  you'll  have  a  delicious  egg." 

And  again  Steve  got  into  the  house. 

He  was  obliged  to  come  out  again 
later  on,  for  there  were  many  things  upon 
this  miniature  plantation  which  were 
clamoring  for  attention.  Indeed,  Steve 
was  slowly  coming  to  believe  in  communi- 
ties, such  associations  meaning  in  his  mind 
a  body  of  men  banded  together  to  run  a 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  8? 

small  acre  of  gronnd ;  one  man  attending 
to  the  chickens,  one  to  the  fruit  trees,  one 
to  the  vegetable  garden,  one  to  the  horse, 
several  to  the  cow,  and  so  on.  It  will 
be  seen  later  on  why,  in  this  distribution  of 
labor,  Steve  always  assigned  several  men 
— able-bodied  at  that — to  the  cow.  It  has 
already  been  mentioned  that  he  was  per- 
suaded early  in  his  matrimonial  career  to 
buy  a  beast  of  this  variety.  This  beauti- 
ful animal  (for  she  was  handsome,  unless 
she  be  judged  by  the  homely  rule  that 
regulates  beauty  by  conduct)  he  immedi- 
ately presented  to  Nannie.  Whether  she 
was  originally  vicious  (and  this  her  for- 
mer owner  vehemently  denied)  or  was 
affected  by  the  nature  of  her  mistress,  no 
one  knows.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  upon 
Nannie's  flying  out  of  the  house  to  gaze 
upon  her  new  possession,  the  latter  low- 
ered her  head,  raised  her  tail  like  a  flag- 
staff, and  galloped  to  meet  her,  and  it  was 
only  by  the  execution  of  a  sort  of  double- 
barreled  backward  somersault  that  Nannie 
saved  her  life. 

"Most    extraordinary    conduct,"    said 
Steve.     "Threatening  from  both  ends." 


88  The  Gentle  Art 

Nannie  was  in  no  wise  dismayed,  and 
either  by  reason  of  her  fearlessness  or  be- 
cause of  a  secret  bond  between  their  na- 
tures, she  and  Sarah  Maria — for  so  she 
named  her  after  a  troublesome  neighbor 
— became  comrades  after  a  fashion.  Be- 
tween Sarah  Maria  and  Brownie,  how- 
ever, there  was  always  war  from  horn  to 
heel,  and  nothing  could  effect  a  reconcilia- 
tion. The  danger  of  this  enmity  was 
clearly  demonstrated  on  a  Sabbath  morn- 
ing, otherwise  peaceful,  when  Nannie 
started  out  with  Brownie  (the  former 
carrying  a  milk  pail,  for  some  reason  best 
known  to  herself,  since  she  knew  nothing 
of  milking)  and  went  down  to  the  pasture 
for  Sarah  Maria.  The  latter  was  await- 
ing them  at  the  bars,  and,  as  it  appeared, 
was  ready  for  the  business  of  the  day. 
No  sooner  was  she  liberated  from  the 
bondage  of  the  pasture  than  she  made  a 
bold  charge  upon  Brownie,  who  promptly 
took  to  cover  behind  his  mistress,  barking 
the  while  in  a  manner  both  rasping  and 
aggravating  to  one  of  Sarah  Maria's  ir- 
ritable nervous  system.  The  bovine's  at- 


Of  Cookino-  Wives.  89 

tention  being  now  drawn  to  Nannie,  it 
behooved  the  latter  to  clear  the  path,  and 
in  short  order,  and  Steve,  who  came  run- 
ning to  the  scene,  attracted  by  the  din  of 
battle,  beheld  with  horror-stricken  sight 
a  confused  medley  consisting  of  wife, 
dog,  Sarah  Maria,  milk  pail — all  going 
head  over  heels  into  the  nearest  ditch. 

By  some  miracle  no  one  was  hurt,  and 
an  energetic  use  of  the  milk  pail — a  use 
unforeseen  by  the  manufacturers — re- 
stored quiet  to  the  agitated  district. 

It  was  soon  after  this  escapade  that 
Jacob,  the  man  about  the  place  thought 
himself  called  to  some  other  profession 
than  farming,  and  accordingly  left.  As 
Sarah  Maria  remained,  it  was  necessary 
to  secure  a  milker.  This  difficulty  was 
happily  surmounted  about  eleven  o'clock 
the  first  morning,  when  a  man  selling 
rustic  chairs  appeared  upon  the  scene  and 
good-naturedly  consented  for  the  time 
to  step  within  the  breach  made  by  Jacob's 
disappearance. 

Later  on  it  was  borne  in  on  Steve's  con- 
sciousness that  he  was  the  man  to  whom 


90  The  Gentle  Art 

Sarah  Maria  must  look  for  relief.  The 
situation  was  a  critical  one,  but  Steve's 
was  not  a  nature  to  shirk  responsibilities 
or  shun  sacrifices.  Accordingly,  arming 
himself  with  a  hatchet  and  a  club,  on  the 
end  of  which  latter  instrument  he  sus- 
pended the  milk  pail,  he  set  out,  and  in 
this  new  business  worked  with  such  gentle 
deliberation  that  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he 
could  have  shown  a  quart  of  milk  for  his 
pains  had  not  Sarah  Maria  testified  to 
her  respect  for  the  day  of  small  things  by 
lifting  the  aforementioned  pail  on  high. 

By  the  end  of  a  week,  however,  Steve 
succeeded  in  bringing  his  milking  lessons 
to  a  favorable  conclusion,  and  was  ready 
to  take  his  place  not  among  the  best,  it  is 
true,  but  still  among  the  milkers  of  the 
world.  He  must  have  prosecuted  his  edu- 
cation with  remarkable  ardor,  for  his 
overalls  had  given  out  in  spots,  and  one 
industrious  day  Nannie  took  it  into  her 
head  to  patch  them.  Having  no  suitable 
material  at  hand — such  is  the  misfortune 
of  the  newly  wedded,  with  everything 
whole  about  them — she  utilized  some 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  91 

Scotch  plaid  pieces  left  over  from  a  tea 
gown.  But  hardly  was  the  patch  well  set 
than  she  began  to  reflect  that  its  rather 
conspicuous  beauty  would  no  doubt  catch 
the  eye  of  Sarah  Maria,  and  might  occa- 
sion nothing  less  than  Steve's  death  if  he 
were  taken  unawares  when  his  back  was 
turned.  To  extract  the  patch  was  not  to 
be  thought  of  for  a  moment,  since  it  was 
a  wonderful  triumph  of  art  for  Nannie, 
nor  could  she  consent,  wicked  though  she 
was,  to  let  Steve  walk  forth  arrayed  in  all 
its  glory.  A  bottle  of  shoe  polish  solved 
the  problem  and  made  a  somewhat  stiff 
but  subdued  foundation,  upon  which  Steve 
rested  with  more  or  less  insecurity. 


92  The  Gentle  Art 


vn 


ONE  morning  Nannie  was  out  in  the 
garden,  not  at  work  as  she  should  have 
been  (she  left  all  that  to  Steve),  but 
walking  around  in  a  sort  of  lordly  way, 
after  the  fashion  of  many  idlers  in  this 
world  who  without  scruple  appropriate 
the  results  of  industry. 

She  had  often  noted  an  old  codger 
whose  place  backed  up  on  hers,  but  had 
never  held  any  converse  with  him.  This 
morning,  however,  he  seemed  inclined  to 
break  the  ice,  as  it  were,  for  as  she 
strutted  about  he  leaned  on  the  fence  and 
said  cheerily : 

"Good-morning,  neighbor." 

Nannie  gave  one  glance  at  his  old 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat  and  rusty  over- 
alls, and  then  said  with  a  certain  winning 
sauciness  all  her  own : 

"Good-morning,  old  Hayseed." 


Of  Cooking  Wive^j.  S3 

The  man  laughed.  He  had  a  rotund, 
jovial  countenance,  which  even  his 
smoked  glasses  could  not  plunge  into 
gloom.  His  every  feature  had  an  up- 
ward turn,  and  there  was  something 
strong  and  good  about  the  face  that  made 
one  feel  that  his  heart  also  curved  up- 
ward. 

"So  ye' re  gard'nin',  be  yer?"  he  re- 
marked by  way  of  introduction. 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  Nannie  curtly. 
"Steve  gardens,  and  you  know  it. 
You've  seen  him  bent  like  a  bow  over 
these  beds  ever  since  we  came  here." 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

"And  I've  held  myself  as  straight  as  an 
arrow." 

"Now  thet's  so,  too,"  and  the  old  man 
laughed.  "Ye're  cute,  yer  air." 

"I  can  see  right  ahead  of  me.  I  don't 
wear  smoked  glasses,"  said  Nannie  with 
a  pretty  little  grimace. 

"There's  a  deal  goes  on  ahind  smoked 
glasses  sometimes,"  said  the  old  fellow 
with  a  laugh. 

"How  do     you    keep    house?"  asked 


94  The  Gentle  Art 

Nannie  with  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 
"You  haven't  any  wife  or  daughter." 

"I  don't  keep  it;  jest  trust  it.  Don't 
turn  no  key  nor  nothin'  on  it,  an'  I  ain't 
never  knowed  it  to  stray  outside  ther 
yard.  Ther's  a  heap  in  hevin'  faith  in 
things." 

Nannie's  face  grew  thoughtful. 

"Yer  kin  'most  b'lieve  a  man  inter 
bein'  honest,  an'  I  reckon  it  acts  ther  same 
on  wimmin,  though  they  be  a  leetle  differ- 
ent." 

Nannie  looked  up  from  under  her  curls 
with  a  glance  half  inquiring,  half  defiant. 

"When  wimmin's  young  they  be  like 
a  colt — it's  hard  ter  keep  'em  stiddy. 
When  they  git  older  they  be  somethin' 
like  a  mule — it's  hard  ter  start  'em  up 
now  an'  agin." 

"I  guess  men  are  the  same.  They  be- 
long to  the  same  stock — all  the  world's 
akin,  you  know,"  said  Nannie  mischiev- 
ously. 

"All  the  world's  akin,  eh?"  said  the  old 
man  slowly,  turning  this  thought  over  in 
his  mind.  "Well,  now,  mebbe  thet's  so, 


Of  Cooking  Wives,  95 

but  if  itisther's  a  deal  of  difference  atween 
ther  cousins." 

Again  Nannie's  face  grew  thoughtful. 
Then  she  raised  her  eyes  and  pointed, 
with  a  little  laugh,  to  a  passer-by. 

"There  goes  one  kind  of  a  cousin,  I 
suppose." 

"He's  a  coon,"  said  the  old  man. 
"Him  an'  his  mother,  they  live  off  yonder 
nigh  ther  swamp.  They  used  ter  own 
this  'ere  place  ye' re  on,  an'  then  it  passed 
ter  ther  datter,  an'  then  her  husban' 
bought  it.  She's  in  ther  insane  asylum 
now,  an'  these  rel'tives  claim  she  ain't 
crazy,  but  thet  she  was  put  in  by  ther 
malice  of  her  husban'.  An'  they  claim 
he's  got  ther  place  wrongful,  an'  hadn't  a 
right  ter  sell  ter  you  folks." 

"That's  why  they're  bothering  us  so?" 

"Thet's  why,"  said  old  Hayseed. 

"Well,  they'll  find  we're  two  many  for 
them." 

Then  with  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter 
she  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  egg  Steve  on  to  a 
fight!  Wouldn't  it  be  fun!  I  wonder 
if  Steve  could  fight !" 


96  The  Gentle  Art 

"Reckon  he  could,"  said  the  old  man 
with  a  gleam  in  his  eye  that  seemed  to 
pierce  the  darkness  of  his  glasses.  "He 
don't  look  it  exact  an'  his  manners  don't 
promise  it,  but  ther  may  be  fight  in  him 
somewhere.  Ther  be  men,  yer  know, 
can't  talk  even  about  ther  weather  with- 
out shakin'  a  fist  in  yer  face.  He  ain't 
thet  kind." 

"No.  If  he  were  he  would  have  mur- 
dered Sarah  Maria  long  ago." 

"He  would  thet,  fer  a  fact.  Then 
ther's  others  thet  air  so  afeard — so  skeart 
thet  a  two-year-old  bootblack  or  ther 
shadder  of  publick  derishion  could  put  'em 
ter  flight.  Be  thet  his  kind  ?" 

"I  guess  not !"  blazed  Nannie.  "Steve's 
afraid  of  nothing,  living  or  dead." 

"No,  he  ain't  afeard.  I  kin  see  thet; 
but  he's  peaceable." 

Just  at  this  moment  Nannie  glanced 
down  the  sloping  sides  of  the  ravine  and 
saw  Hilda  Bretherton  panting  her  way  up 
toward  the  house.  Now,  these  two  had 
not  met  since  Hilda  married  and  started 
off  on  her  wedding  trip  to  France,  shortly 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  97 

before  Nannie  became  engaged.  True  to 
the  usual  direction  of  her  popularity, 
Hilda  had  married  a  small  man,  beside 
whom  she  looked  the  good-natured  giant- 
ess she  indeed  was,  but  he  was  enormously 
rich,  and  in  her  particular  set  she  was  ac- 
counted one  of  fortune's  favorites. 

Since  casting  her  lot  in  the  country 
Nannie  had  been  into  town  but  little. 
For  society  as  she  had  known  it  she 
cared  nothing.  Then,  too,  marriage  had 
entered  the  magic  circle  of  the  Young 
Woman's  Club  and  changed  its  member- 
ship, so  that  Nannie  felt  herself  an  alien. 
She  was  not  consciously  lonely  in  the 
country,  but  yet  there  was  something  so 
significant  in  the  glad  cry  she  uttered 
when  she  caught  sight  of  Hilda,  and  the 
unusual  warmth  of  her  greeting,  that  old 
Hayseed  looked  on  from  his  side  of  the 
fence  with  a  meditative  air. 

"The  colt's  a-yearnin'  fer  somethin: 
without  knowin'  it,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  Nannie  dragged  Hilda  into  the  house. 

"I  ought  not  to  sit  down,"  Hilda 
panted.  "Oh,  dear!  Let  me  get  my 


98  The  Gentle  Art 

breath!  Do  you  see  how  awfully  fat  I 
am?  and  my  husband  don't  weigh  but  a 
hundred  and  twenty — think  of  that!  A 
sparrow  for  a  protector!  If  ever  I 
wanted  to  get  behind  him  to  escape  a 
mouse  or  anything,  what  should  I  do?" 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Nannie. 

"What — the  mouse?"  screamed  Hilda. 

"No,"  said  Nannie,  "the  husband;" 
and  then  the  two  fell  a-laughing  in  the 
old  foolish  way. 

"Husband !  Oh,  I  thought  you'd  have 
something  of  that  kind  around,  and  one 
would  be  enough  for  to-day." 

"No,  really!     Where  is  he?" 

"Over  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine. 
You  see,  we  missed  the  road  and  got  en- 
tangled in  the  forest.  Ye  gods !  how  lit- 
erally you've  taken  to  the  woods,  Nannie ! 
Well,  DeLancy  didn't  feel  he  was  equal 
to  a  climb,  so  I  came  alone,  presumably 
to  find  the  road,  but  I  couldn't  go  on  with- 
out seeing  you,  so  I've  stolen  a  visit." 

"You'd  better!"  said  Nannie.  "If 
ever  you  pass  me  by  I'll  haunt  you !" 

"I  know  that.     I  always  was  afraid  of 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  99 

you.  I  always  said  you  were  a 
little " 

"Sh-h!"  said  Nannie,  imitating  Pru- 
dence Shaftsbury's  air  and  manner. 

"Dear  old  Prue !  "  said  Hilda.  "I  saw 
her  the  other  day.  I  believe  she's  really 
happy.  She  don't  say  much,  but  she 
looks  it.  She's  awfully  swell,  too. 
Why,  you  hear  Mrs.  Ralph  Porter  on  all 
sides.  She  leads  everything.  That  girl 
has  more  tact  and  diplomacy  than  any  one 
I  ever  saw.  Awfully  nice  girl,  too. 
Here  I  am,  always  putting  my  foot  in  it. 
DeLancy  says  I  fling  a  rope  around  my 
neck  so  surely  as  I  open  my  mouth,  and 
with  each  succeeding  word  I  give  it  a 
jerk.  Oh,  dear  me!  I  ought  to  be  go- 
ing. He'll  be  wild!  Why,  you  don't 
look  any  too  well.  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  Nan?  Aren't  you  happy, 
child?" 

"Yes.  Mind  your  business!"  said 
Nannie  in  the  old  defiant  way. 

"Bless  me!  bless  me!  You  haven't 
changed  a  mite!  I  thought  marriage 
would  improve  you.  Oh,  do  you  know 


100  The  Gentle  Art 

Evelyn  Rogers  was  married  the  other 
day?" 

"No,"  said  Nannie  with  quickened  in- 
terest. 

"Yes — not  at  her  home.  She  was  vis- 
iting her  aunt  in  New  York,  and  there  she 
married  her  villainous-looking  professor, 
and  would  you  believe  it?  I  heard  they 
went  right  off  to  the  slums  on  a  wedding 
trip,  taking  a  thief,  and  an  anarchist,  and 
a  murderer  with  them,  as  chaperons,  I 
suppose.  Oh,  I  ought  to  be  going !" 

"To  the  slums?"  asked  Nannie. 

"No,  no.  I  ought  to  get  out  of  here. 
DeLancy  is  insane  by  this  time,  I  know ! 
I  must  run!" 

"Hilda,  you  sit  still  and  cool  off! 
You've  just  been  in  a  stew  ever  since  you 
came." 

"I'm  in  one  all  the  time.  Do  you  re- 
member what  some  of  you  girls  said  of 
me  at  that  first  meeting  of  the  club — I'd 
be  kept  in  a  continual  stew  ?  Never  were 
truer  words  spoken.  Oh!"  and  she 
groaned  loudly. 

"Why  don't  you  get  done — with  it?" 
asked  Nannie. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  101 

"I  can't,"  said  Hilda  coolly.  "I'm  in 
for  it  now  and  must  go  on  to  the  bitter 
end.  It's  too  late  to  chew  the  cud  of  re- 
flection." 

"Don't  count  on  the  end,"  laughed 
Nannie,  looking  at  her  friend's  rotund 
figure.  "There's  no  end  to  you,  Hilda. 
You're  an  all-round  woman." 

"Indeed  I  am!  If  you  could  only  see 
the  number  of  offices  I  fill.  I'm  nurse, 
doctor,  valet,  messenger,  and  on  cross 
days  general  vent  for  the  humors." 

"Is  he  really  ill?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  has  dyspepsia. 
I  guess  he  don't  feel  any  too  well,  and 
nothing  pleases  him.  He  took  a  notion 
that  a  sea  voyage  would  cure  him,  and  it 
didn't.  He  snarled  and  snapped  all  the 
way,  and  oh,  I  was  so  sick — ugh!  and  I 
had  to  drag  myself  around  after  him. 
Then  next  he  tried  the  German  baths. 
He's  tried  everything,  and  now — oh, 
now,"  she  continued  with  a  groan,  putting 
her  handkerchief  to  her  face,  "he  says  that 
society  is  injurious  to  him.  And  what  do 
you  suppose  he  has  done?"  she  asked, 


102  The  Gentle  Art 

raising  her  voice  and  peering  from  above 
the  handkerchief  which  she  had  pressed 
to  her  face.  "He's  rented  a  lonely  cabin 
in  the  Adirondacks  for  a  year — a  year ! 
and  there  I'm  to  live!  Imagine  me,  my 
dear !  I  shall  grow  so  rusty  that  when  I 
return  to  civilization  I  shall  only  be  able 
to  hang  on  the  back  door  and  creak  while 
others  are  talking.  Mercy  upon  us! 
there's  DeLancy !  He'll  find  me  visiting ! 
I'll  never  hear  the  last  of  this  as  long  as 
I  live!  Where  can  I  go?  What  can  I 
get  under?  Oh,  there's  nothing  big 
enough  in  all  the  world  to  cover  me! 
Woe  is  me!  I  must  always  remain  in 
the  open!" 

"Lie  down  there,"  said  Nannie  authori- 
tatively. "I'll  cover  you." 

"You!"  screamed  Hilda.  "You!  Oh, 
you  elf!  you  brownie!  you  mite — you 
widow's  mite !  What  could  you  cover  ?" 

"Lie  down!  Be  quick!  The  enemy 
approaches!"  cried  Nannie,  convulsed 
with  laughter. 

Hilda  gave  one  glance  from  out  the 
window  and  then  fell  flat  on  the  divan. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  103 

"I  am  lost !"  she  groaned. 

"I'll  defend  you,"  said  Nannie  bravely. 

"You!  Oh,  you  atom!  you  molecule! 
you  microbe !  What  can  you  do  ?" 

"Be  quiet.  You  are  dead — do  you 
hear?  You're  dead — dead  as  a  door- 
nail; dead  as  a  mummy — the  mummy 
that  walked  the  streets  of  Thebes  when 
Moses  was  a  young  man." 

"Nannie!" 

But  Nannie  did  not  hear,  for  she  was 
running  to  meet  the  enemy,  a  bit  of  a  man 
who  looked  like  a  woodland  sprite  as  he 
walked  along  the  edge  of  the  ravine.  In 
contrast  with  the  big  figure  that  lay 
prone  upon  the  divan,  his  size  was  really 
ridiculous.  Had  his  pettiness  been 
merely  external,  that  would  not  have 
mattered.  Small  men  have  been  known 
to  tower  as  giants  before  us.  Luther  was 
called  the  little  monk,  and  the  Corsican 
who  altered  the  world's  map  was  of  still 
smaller  proportions. 

This  little  creature,  however,  was  the 
reverse  of  Julia  Ward  Howe's  youthful 
daughter,  who  announced  to  an  offending 


104  The  Gentle  Art 

visitor  that  she  was  "big  inside,"  inas- 
much as  he  was  made  on  a  small  pattern, 
within  as  well  as  without. 

His  petty  face  was  all  puckered  up 
when  Nannie  encountered  him,  and  his 
rasping  voice  was  at  its  most  irritating 
pitch. 

The  moment  he  was  within  hailing  dis- 
tance he  began  his  complaint,  heedless 
even  of  the  courtesy  of  a  greeting.  He 
declared  he  was  too  exhausted  to  take 
another  step;  that  he  had  lost  his  wife, 
and  he  asked  if  Nannie  had  seen  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Seymour!  Hilda— Hilda- 
is — at  my  house — dead." 

"Dead!"  he  fairly  screamed. 

"No,  dying." 

He  started  toward  the  house  with  the 
speed  of  the  wind,  but  Nannie  stopped 
him. 

"Don't!"  she  exclaimed.  "Wait!  Oh, 
I'm  so  excited  I'm  all  mixed  up!  She's 
had  an  awful  spell,  but  she's  better  now; 
but  you  mustn't  startle  her.  Something's 
the  matter  with  her  heart.  It  was  beat- 
ing like  a  sledge-hammer — an  awful 
spell." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  105 

"Oh,  if  she  dies,  who'll  take  care  of  me  ? 
What  shall  I  do?" 

And  he  wrung  his  weak  little  hands. 

"She  won't  die,  I  guess,  if  we  take  good 
care  of  her.  Oh,  it's  awful  to  have  any- 
thing of  this  kind  happen  when  you're  out 
in  the  country  miles  from  a  doctor." 

"And  I  have  been  crazy  enough  to  rent 
a  cottage  in  the  Adirondacks !" 

Nannie  looked  at  him  solemnly  and 
said: 

"Oh!" 

"I'll  let  it  stand  idle !  Hilda  might  die 
up  there!  I  never  thought  of  such  a 
thing,  she  looks  so  well.  And  /  might  be 
taken  worse,"  he  gasped  as  one  who  sud- 
denly realized  a  still  more  awful  possibil- 
ity. "It  would  never  do  for  us  to  go  up 
there." 

Nannie  looked  still  more  solemn  and 
said: 

"Oh,  no." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the 
house,  and  Mr.  Seymour  was  tiptoeing 
about,  getting  out  one  remedy  after  an- 
other for  his  prostrate  wife,  who  feebly 


106  The  Gentle  Art 

assured  him  she  was  better.  By  the  time 
he  had  given  her  smelling  salts,  a  little 
port,  a  whiff  of  ammonia,  some  soda  and 
water,  a  smell  of  camphor,  and  had 
bathed  her  forehead  in  Florida  water, 
alcohol,  witch-hazel,  and  rubbed  it  with 
camphor  ice  and  a  menthol  pencil,  the 
case  began  to  look  really  serious,  and 
Hilda  was  honestly  ill. 

She  lay  on  the  divan,  perspiring  and 
uncomfortable,  uneasy  in  conscience  and 
timorous  as  to  results,  until  near  evening, 
when  her  husband,  with  many  a  misgiv- 
ing, took  her  away  in  a  carriage — not  to 
the  Adirondacks. 

Nannie  watched  until  they  were  out  of 
sight,  and  when  she  turned  she  saw  Steve 
coming,  and  in  her  swift  way  contrasted 
him  with  DeLancy  Seymour. 

That  evening  after  dinner,  without  a 
word  of  explanation  to  her  husband,  Nan- 
nie walked  off  to  the  house  of  her  cousin, 
Mr.  Misfit.  Now,  Steve  was  by  this  time 
somewhat  accustomed  to  her  eccentric 
ways  and  seldom  questioned  them,  nor 
did  he  realize  that  they  were  eccentric. 


Of  Cooking  "Wives.  107 

He  had  grown  up  knowing  very  little  of 
women  and  regarding  them  as  a  peculiar 
class,  which  no  doubt  they  are.  Indeed, 
his  rural  experiences,  not  only  with  his 
wife,  but  also  with  the  hens  and  with 
Sarah  Maria,  had  tended  toward  the  in- 
clusion of  the  entire  sex  under  the  head 
incomprehensible,  and  he  was  inclined  to 
treat  them  like  difficult  words,  which  we 
point  at  from  a  distance  without  attempt- 
ing to  grapple. 

He  might  have  maintained  this  let-alone 
attitude  indefinitely  but  for  a  growing 
sense  of  the  total  depravity  of  vegetable 
sins  and  a  realization  of  his  miserable  in- 
sufficiency as  a  combatant.  Naturally,  in 
looking  about  him  for  assistance  he 
thought  of  her  who  should  be  his  help- 
meet, and  mentally  began  to  question  her 
continual  absence  from  home.  This  even- 
ing he  was  feeling  a  little  more  tired  than 
usual,  and  an  ill-selected  luncheon  in 
town  had  depressed  him.  When  he  found 
that  the  weeds  were  likely  to  overpower 
him  he  arose  and  decided  that  Nannie 
must  be  called  upon.  She  was  not  at 


108  The  Gentle  Art 

home,  but  he  could  fetch  her.  To  be 
sure  that  might  not  be  easy,  but  Steve  was 
now  fully  roused.  Prolonged  warfare 
had  developed  in  his  nature  a  trace  of 
pugilism  hitherto  unsuspected  by  his 
nearest  friend.  Every  man  has  more  or 
less  of  the  warrior  within  him.  It  may 
be  asleep,  but  it  is  there,  and  Steve  was  no 
exception. 

A  short  walk  brought  him  to  the  house 
of  Nannie's  cousin,  and  there  he  found 
the  lady  for  whom  he  was  seeking. 

"Are  you  going  home  now,  Nannie?" 
he  asked  in  his  usual  gentle  way. 

Nannie  looked  into  his  face  and  saw 
something  new,  and  it  roused  her  opposi- 
tion. 

"No,"  she  said. 

Now,  Steve  had  read  Ian  Maclaren's 
story  of  the  wretched  beadle  who,  newly 
inflated,  but  not  profited,  by  his  lonely 
wedding  journey  to  a  Presbyterian  synod, 
resolved  to  experiment  in  the  exercise  of 
authority  upon  his  bride.  But,  alas!  he 
had  read  to  his  destruction.  He  remem- 
bered with  what  majesty  the  beadle  said : 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  109 

"Rebecca,  close  the  door." 

But  he  did  not  remember  what  Rebecca 
did,  and  hence  had  no  better  sense  than  to 
say  this  evening,  with  a  quiet  firmness 
new  to  his  domestic  use : 

"I  should  like  to  have  you  go  home 
now,  Nannie.  There  are  matters  that 
need  your  attention." 

Nannie  rose  at  once  and  walked  home 
without  a  word,  Steve  accompanying  her. 
By  the  time  they  got  there  a  young  moon 
was  sinking  in  the  west,  and  with  the  curi- 
osity common  to  extreme  youth  it  strained 
its  eyes  to  see  through  the  trees  what  Nan- 
nie would  do. 

"The  radishes  and  lettuce  need  weed- 
ing," said  Steve  when  they  reached  the 
garden,  and  Nannie  walked  directly  to 
these  beds  and  went  to  work,  while  Steve 
occupied  himself  at  a  little  distance. 

Before  long  old  Hayseed  came  up  and 
leaned  upon  the  fence. 

"Well,  neighbor,"  he  said,  "what  are 
ye  doin'  by  moonlight  ?" 

Nannie  stood  erect  and  looked  at  him. 
Her  black  eyes  fairly  scintillated  and  her 


110  The  Gentle  Art 

lips  were  compressed.  All  around  her 
were  scattered  the  uprooted  weeds,  and 
the  lettuce  and  radishes  lay  with  them. 

"What  crop  air  ye  raisin'  now?"  he 
asked.. 

"I'm  raising  Cain !"  she  said. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  Ill 


VIII 


SPITE  is  a  whip  that  cracks  at  both 
ends,  and  the  rear  lash  inflicts  by  far  the 
sharper  sting.  Nannie  felt  its  full  force 
when  she  arose  early  the  next  morning 
after  the  sowing  of  her  peculiar  crop,  and 
looking  from  the  window  saw  the  sad 
traces  of  her  work  lying  upon  the  ground. 
The  evening  before  she  had  walked  into 
the  house  tingling  with  ignoble  triumph, 
but  this  morning  she  felt  nothing  but 
shame  as  she  speculated  on  Steve's  atti- 
tude. Possibly — this  flashed  across  her 
mind — Steve  had  not  seen  her  work,  and 
she  might  plant  those  wretched  things 
again  before  he  wakened.  But  this  poor 
solace  was  denied  her,  for  on  peeping  into 
Steve's  room  she  saw  that  he  was  already 
up.  Where  was  he  ?  Not  working  in  the 
garden  as  usual ;  off — somewhere. 

In  her  ignorance  of  character  such  as 
his  and  in  the  newness  of  her  emotions, 


112  The  Gentle  Art 

for  Nannie  was  not  used  to  contribution, 
she  exaggerated  matters  and  fancied  that 
Steve,  thoroughly  disgusted  with  her  con- 
duct (as  well  he  might  be), had  walked  off 
and  left  her.  The  sharpness  of  her  ter- 
ror as  she  conceived  such  a  possibility 
took  even  herself  by  surprise.  Until  this 
moment  it  had  never  entered  her  mind 
that  she  might  love  her  husband.  Even 
now  she  did  not  fully  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  her  unusual  emotion.  She 
only  knew  that  she  felt  shame-stricken 
over  what  she  had  done  and  terrified  be- 
fore possible  consequences. 

Her  fears,  however,  were  without  sub- 
stantial foundation.  Steve  had  not  as 
yet  seen  the  uprooted  garden,  and  conse- 
quently was  still  ignorant  of  her  ill- 
humor.  Long  confinement  to  a  work  for 
which  he  was  unfitted  had  worn  upon 
him,  and  he  felt  the  need  of  rest  and 
change.  As  of  old,  in  his  weariness  he 
looked  to  the  woods  and  streams  for  re- 
freshment, for  although  poorly  adapted  to 
the  wringing  of  his  daily  bread  from  the 
soil,  he  was  nevertheless  exquisitely 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  113 

keyed  to  the  harmonies  cf  Nature,  and 
her  touch  upon  his  soul  was  life. 

It  had  been  long  since  he  had  taken 
an  early  morning  tramp.  In  the  city  his 
midnight  retirement  forbade  the  snapping 
of  his  hours  of  rest  at  dawn,  but  now  that 
his  life  was  ordered  somewhat  differently, 
he  could  afford  himself  the  luxury  of  a 
sunrise. 

With  this  plan  in  mind  he  retired  early 
after  setting  the  hand  of  his  clock  at  the 
hour  cf  four. 

The  alarm  went  off  with  a  furious 
bur-r-r  that  brought  him  on  his  feet 
through  sheer  astonishment.  He  had  net 
been  wakened  in  such  summary  fashion 
since  his  last  hunting  trip,  years  and  years 
ago.  After  staring  at  the  still  whirring 
clock  for  a  moment  as  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed  stupid  with  astonishment,  he 
collected  himself  and  began  a  hasty  toilet. 
He  experienced  something  of  a  boy's  glee 
as  he  donned  his  clothes,  and  when  Le 
crept  softly  downstairs  and  unbarred  the 
house  door,  he  seemed  to  be  reviving 
some  of  his  boyish  escapades. 


1U  The  Gentle  Art 

It  was  not  difficult  to  reach  the  woods, 
for  the  little  suburb  was  embraced  by 
these  primitive  arms,  and  it  was  like  a 
child's  running  to  a  waiting  mother  to  go 
out  to  them.  He  took  no  road  or  given 
path  for  a  time,  merely  tramping  through 
the  underbrush  that  tangled  the  wood- 
land; along  the  edges  of  ravines;  down 
into  their  shadowy  depths;  up  again; 
now  breaking  through  the  bramble  out 
into  the  open  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff 
that  skirts  the  lake;  then  bounding  back 
again,  like  a  rabbit  running  to  covert. 
He  inhaled  with  delight  the  dampness  that 
rose  from  the  ground  and  from  the  vege- 
tation about  him.  In  the  spring,  and  in 
the  early  summer  there  is  something  so 
hopeful,  so  suggestive  of  awakening  life 
in  that  fragrant  moisture,  that  it  seems  to 
call  forth  an  answering  energy.  Steve 
felt  its  significance  in  full  force,  and 
fairly  thrilled  with  delight  as  it  permeated 
his  being. 

Now  he  was  out  again,  following  the 
sweep  of  the  bluff  and  looking  eastward 
over  the  big  waters.  Some  days  the  sun 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  115 

appeared  there  in  regal  splendor,  but  on 
this  particular  morning  there  was  a  deli- 
cacy about  the  picture  suggestive  of  the 
careful  work  on  one  of  Turner's  loveliest. 
There  was  no  gorgeous  red,  no  blazing 
gold,  but  tints  as  exquisite  as  those  seen 
in  the  heart  of  an  abalone  shell — still 
lakes  of  sea-green  feathered  about  by  a 
fleecy  white  just  touched  with  the  yellow 
of  the  daisy;  lambent  wings  of  gray, 
kissed  into  a  roseate  hue  as  they  spread 
outward  and  upward  toward  the  zenith; 
and  the  expectant  waters  on  the  lake 
trembling  'neath  their  answering  pink. 

Steve  stood  and  faced  it  all,  hat  in 
hand.  His  locks  were  stirred  by  the 
slight  fresh  breeze  that  came  over  the 
lake,  and  something  else  was  stirred 
within  him.  There  was  a  fine  look  on  his 
face.  The  physical  had  disappeared.  He 
no  longer  felt  that  strong  animal  buoy- 
ancy akin  to  the  strength  of  the  wild 
horse  as  he  courses  the  prairies,  but  his 
soul  was  answering  "Here"  to  the  call 
from  the  skies. 

He  turned  by-and-by  and  walked  on- 


116  The  Gentle  Art 

ward  in  a  still  mood — the  receptive  mood 
into  which  God  sows  rare  seed.  He  was 
walking  away  from  the  sunrise  now  out 
toward  the  Skokie,  that  great  bog,  but  he 
could  see  the  west  flushing  with  delight — 
could  see  the  windows  of  a  cottage  far 
ahead  blazing  with  reflected  glory. 

He  reached  the  cottage  ere  long. 
There  were  no  signs  of  life  about  it  as  yet. 

"I'm  the  first  man  up,"  Steve  thought, 
smiling  as  he  went  on. 

The  little  home  put  the  finishing  touch 
to  the  picture,  and  Steve  looked  at  it  so 
long  and  so  intently  that  he  might  have 
been  accused  of  rudeness  had  the  occu- 
pants seen  him.  His  thoughts,  however, 
\vere  anything  but  rude,  for  a  home  had 
always  been  sacred  to  him.  Had  he  acted 
at  the  bidding  of  his  fine  instinct,  he 
would  have  raised  his  hat  and  stood  un- 
covered in  its  presence.  Since  his  mar- 
riage a  home  had  taken  on  a  deeper  mean- 
ing. Without  losing  a  jot  of  its  sacred- 
ness,  it  had  come  to  stand  for  something 
of  pain.  On  his  walk  that  morning  he 
had  noted  many  things  with  new  eyes — 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  11? 

the  flowers  gladdening  the  face  of  nature ; 
the  trees  rearing  their  proud  heads  and 
standing  each  in  his  own  place — each  do- 
ing his  own  work;  the  birds  trilling  their 
songs  of  praise  and  stirring  in  the  soul 
those  holy  aspirations  whose  feet  scarce 
touch  the  earth  and  whose  face  is  set 
toward  heaven — all  these  doing  the 
Father's  work  and  answering  with  the 
quick  response  of  perfect  obedience,  per- 
fect sympathy  to  the  divine  will.  View- 
ing them  now  with  a  soul  made  receptive 
by  the  tender  sadness  of  real  life,  Steve 
asked  himself  over  and  over  again,  Am  I 
fulfilling  the  divine  mission? 

When  he  reached  home  his  face  wore 
a  thoughtful  look,  and  the  question  of  the 
morning  lay  deep  within  his  eyes  as  he 
walked  into  the  garden  and  came  upon 
Nannie's  work.  For  a  long  time  he  stood 
there  gazing  at  it.  An  ordinary  man 
would  have  been  intensely  angry,  and 
whatever  good  he  might  have  felt  or  pur- 
posed during  his  walk  would  have  taken 
wings. 

But  it  did  not  occur  to  Steve  just  then 


118  The  Gentle  Art 

to  be  angry.  Up  to  this  time,  like  most 
another  really  thoughtful  person,  he  had 
done  very  little  actual  thinking,  but  now 
he  was  entered  upon  a  life  which  is  God's 
own  school  for  the  development  of  char- 
acter, and  in  the  mental  and  spiritual 
awakening  of  which  he  was  only  dimly 
conscious  he  began  to  see  that  many 
things  which  he  had  hitherto  accepted  as 
a  matter  of  course  were  in  reality  the  re- 
sult of  causes  which  could  and  should  be 
removed.  Passion  blurs  the  vision,  and 
Steve  was  straining  his  eyes  to  see  just 
then,  so  it  was  necessary  above  all  things 
that  he  should  hold  himself  in  hand. 
"What  makes  Nannie  act  so?" 
This  was  the  question  he  was  asking 
as  he  stood  by  his  despoiled  garden,  and 
the  answer  began  to  come  to  him  in  a 
shadowy  sort  of  way.  It  was  not  just 
what  he  imagined  it  would  be — not  just 
what  he  would  have  wished  it  to  be.  Few 
answers  take  on  the  shape  we  anticipate 
or  desire,  but  it  was  undeniably  an  an- 
swervand  he  turned,  possibly  in  obedience, 
to  a  cool,  shady  nook  near  by,  and  pluck- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  119 

ing  a  few  late  violets  which  were  growing 
there,  went  into  the  house  where  Nannie 
sat  alone  at  breakfast,  and  laying  these 
gently  on  the  table  beside  her,  without  a 
word  went  on  his  way  to  the  station  and 
took  his  usual  train. 

For  a  long  time  after  he  had  left  the 
house  Nannie  sat  there,  her  breakfast  un- 
tasted,  her  elbows  resting  on  the  table, 
her  hands  clasped  under  her  chin.  She 
was  not  looking  at  the  violets,  but  their 
subtle  fragrance  permeated  her  thought 
as  it  were.  Never  in  all  her  life  before 
had  she  been  treated  in  this  way;  never 
before  had  she  known  of  anything  of  this 
kind  outside  the  covers  of  a  book.  She 
was  not  conscious  of  shame,  sorrow,  or 
even  regret;  she  was  simply  stupid  with 
wonder. 

She  got  up  by-and-by  and  walked 
toward  the  parlor,  but  looking  back  to  the 
table  she  saw  the  violets  still  lying  be- 
side her  plate.  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  took  them  up  and  carried  them  to  a 
vase  in  the  next  room,  but  in  the  midst  of 
arranging  them  there  she  impulsively 


120  The  Gentle  Art 

turned  to  a  magazine  near  at  hand, 
slipped  them  into  this,  and  then  tucked 
the  book  away,  coloring  the  while  like  a 
girl  detected  with  her  first  love  letter. 

"It  wasn't  so  dreadful  what  I  did,"  she 
muttered,  to  reinstate  herself.-  "It  didn't 
matter  about  the  radishes,  anyhow.  They 
were  so  old  it  would  have  been  disre- 
spectful to  eat  them." 

But  she  felt  badly,  nevertheless,  as  she 
caught  up  her  hat,  which  lay  upon  the 
sofa  just  where  she  had  thrown  it  the 
night  before,  and  started  off  to  Constance 
Chance's. 

Something  was  stirred  within  her,  and 
she  felt  uneasy  with  a  restlessness  that  in- 
clined her  to  seek  a  friend. 

A  friend !  She  had  not  one  in  the  world. 
Of  all  the  women  she  knew,  Constance 
Chance  claimed  the  most  of  her  respect 
and  admiration,  but  Constance  was 
wholly  unaware  of  this  feeling,  and 
moreover,  did  not  like  Nannie.  In  old 
days  she  tolerated  her  and  was  even  at- 
tracted by  her  beauty,  but  she  had 
warmly  resented  her  marriage  to  Steve — 


Of  Cooking  Wives. 

whom  she  regarded  as  deserving  a  wife 
far  superior  to  Nannie.  She  had,  as  is 
the  custom  of  women  in  such  cases, 
leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  either  Nan- 
nie had  made  advances  to  Steve — which 
he  was  too  delicate  and  kind-hearted  to 
repel — or  that  she  had  in  some  way  ex- 
cited his  pity,  and  he  had  married  her  in 
order  to  protect  and  care  for  her,  and  she 
held  it  as  a  grudge  against  her.  That  a 
man  like  Steve  could  be  attracted  by  such 
a  girl  as  Nannie  was  inconceivable  to 
Constance,  although  Randolph  regarded 
the  matter  differently. 

When  she  found  that  the  marriage 
really  was  to  take  place  she  resolved  to 
make  the  best  of  it,  but  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore she  decided  that  Steve  was  unhappy, 
and  then  her  smouldering  dissatisfaction 
broke  into  such  a  lively  flame  that  Ran- 
dolph was  obliged  to  interpose  to  prevent 
her  from  taking  Nannie  in  hand. 

"There,  there,  sweetheart,"  he  said. 
"Don't  get  wrought  up  about  it,  I'm 
afraid  you'd  only  make  matters  worse. 
Better  let  them  rest  as  they  are.  We're 


122  The  Gentle  Art 

not  certain  that  it's  so.  Steve's  a  queer 
fellow." 

"I  know  he's  unhappy !"  Constance  ex- 
claimed. "It's  not  necessary  foi  him  to 
speak.  There  is  a  silence  that  is  eloquent ; 
then  his  looks  have  changed.  There's 
something  so  pathetic  about  his  whole 
bearing." 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  that.  Poor  old  man ! 
Well,  we  can't  help  it.  These,  aren't  mat- 
ters for  outsiders,  my  sweetheart — you 
know  that  even  better  than  I  do." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  I'm  so  angry  with 
that  little  minx!  See  how  she  has  es- 
tranged him  from  us.  He  hardly  ever 
comes  here  now." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  think  that  we  ought 
to  put  all  the  blame  of  that  on  Nannie. 
A  man  isn't  apt  to  run  around  after  he's 
married.  Look  at  me — you  can  hardly 
get  me  out  at  all,  and  I  used  to  be  a  great 
gad-about." 

"I  dare  say,  sir,  I  dare  say,"  said  Con- 
stance, nodding  her  head  as  one  who 
knows. 

Randolph  laughed. 

"I  certainly  was  over  at  your  house 


Of  Cooking  Wives* 

often  enough,"  he  said,  "but  now  that 
I've  run  the  race  and  won  the  prize,  I 
can  stay  at  home  and  enjoy  it." 

"Well,  I  wish  poor  Steve  had  a  home 
to  enjoy,"  murmured  Constance  as  a  last 
word. 

As  a  matter  of  course  this  conversation 
and  the  reflections  which  followed  it  did 
not  prepare  Constance  to  give  Nannie  a 
very  cordial  greeting  when  she  came 
over  that  day.  Had  she  known  Nannie's 
state  of  mind;  had  she  guessed  that  the 
child-wife  looked  up  to  her  and  was  so 
ready  to  be  influenced  by  her,  the  older 
woman,  she  would  have  done  altogether 
differently.  It  is  the  lack  of  this  very 
knowledge  that  makes  much  of  life  a 
mere  blundering  about  in  the  dark. 

She  received  her  coolly,  and  Nannie 
was  sensitive  enough  to  feel  this  so  deeply 
that  Randolph's  hearty  welcome  could 
but  partially  heal  the  hurt.  This  pain, 
however,  was  not  without  its  resultant 
benefit,  although  the  lesson  for  which  it 
opened  the  way  might  have  come  more 
gently.  Stung  to  the  quick,  aching  with 
loneliness,  and  with  a  yearning  which  she 


124  The  Gentle  Art 

did  not  understand,  the  young  wife  was 
roused  as  never  before  and  her  eyes 
opened  to  things  heretofore  unseen.  She 
noticed  the  orderliness  of  the  home  she 
was  in,  its  air  of  thrift  and  good  manage- 
ment, and  its  artistic  beauty.  Nor  was 
this  all,  for  the  best  of  a  home  is  that 
which  is  too  elusive,  too  subtile  to  remain 
under  any  of  these  heads,  and  this  indef- 
inite something  attracted  and  touched 
Nannie  to-day.  Fog  and  mist,  cloud  and 
rain  had  softened  the  soil  into  which  these 
seeds  fell.  Pain  is  a  strong  note  in  the 
prelude  to  life. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Nannie's  crude 
resentful  type  of  pride  that  she  prolonged 
her  stay  at  Constance's,  even  though  she 
realized  she  was  unwelcome.  She  would 
not  allow  any  one  the  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing that  she  felt  hurt. 

As  far  as  possible,  Randolph  tried  to 
atone  for  his  wife's  lack  of  cordiality, 
and  in  pursuance  of  this  aim  he  made  an 
essential  point  of  taking  Nannie  around 
the  little  place  and  showing  her  the  latest 
arrivals  in  the  vegetable  line.  He  had 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  125 

considerable  to  show,  for  his  tiny  planta- 
tion was  a  model  of  thrift  and  comeliness. 
Many  varieties  of  vegetables  were  hold- 
ing out  their  succulent  wares,  all  ready 
for  table  use,  and  many  more  were  ab- 
sorbing sunshine  and  balmy  air  in  prep- 
aration for  future  calls.  Near  the  house 
cheery  and  fragrant  flowers  gladdened 
the  pretty  beds  in  which  no  weed  was  al- 
lowed to  rear  its  vicious  crest.  There 
\vas,  it  is  true,  one  ugly,  uncivilized  por- 
tion of  the  place,  in  which  the  primitive, 
the  barbaric  reigned  supreme.  As  yet 
Randolph  had  not  found  time  to  attack 
this  spot  and  bring  it  within  the  pale  of 
garden  orthodoxy.  Secretly  he  had  for  a 
time  been  hoping  that  Constance  would 
take  it  in  hand,  although  he  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  let  her  know  he  dreamed 
of  this.  Certainly  he  would  have  been 
shocked  at  the  idea  of  setting  her  at  any 
such  task,  but  he  would  as  certainly  have 
winked  at  her  own  voluntary  perform- 
ance of  it.  To  be  entirely  frank,  he  had 
a  little  scene  all  ready  in  his  imagination, 
in  which  this  unsightly  corner  was  found 


126  The  Gentle  Art 

clothed  and  in  its  right  mind — the  noxious 
weeds  having  been  cast  out  by  Con- 
stance's gentle  hands.  In  this  delightful 
scene  Constance  always  stood  by  smiling 
in  a  deprecatory  way,  and  he  was  always 
gently  upbraiding  her — "Now,  Con- 
stance !  Why,  this  is  shameful !  The  idea 
of  your  doing  such  a  thing!  It  wasn't 
right  of  you !  You  must  promise  me  you 
will  never,  never  do  anything  of  this  sort 
again!"  and  so  forth,  and  so  on. 

But  alas !  this  scene,  like  many  another, 
remained  in  the  author's  possession,  Con- 
stance giving  no  occasion  to  act  it  out,  but 
going  circumspectly  and  quietly  on  her 
way,  ignorant  of  this  delightful  little 
fancy  of  her  husband's.  Just  now  she 
was  busy,  very  busy,  and  very  happy  in- 
doors. She  sat  sewing  in  the  cool,  beauti- 
ful library,  and  the  house  door  was  open. 

When  Randolph  excused  himself  from 
Nannie  by-and-by  to  talk  with  a  man  who 
called  on  business,  the  latter  started 
toward  the  house.  On  the  gallery  she 
paused,  for  she  heard  Constance's  voice 
within,  and  she  did  not  care  to  go  to  her. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  127 

There  was  a  hammock,  shaded  by  a  vine, 
near  at  hand,  and  she  crept  into  this,  and 
lying  there  the  waves  of  Constance's  low, 
sweet  voice,  mingled  with  the  perfume 
of  the  honeysuckle,  stole  out  to  her  and 
stirred  new  longings.  Nannie  leaned 
forward  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  Con- 
stance, who  was  at  work,  doing  some  of 
that  fine  sewing  which  gentlewomen  love 
to  put  upon  things  of  sweet  value.  Nannie 
could  not  discern  what  it  was,  but  as  Con- 
stance shifted  the  contents  of  her  work 
basket  a  little  article  came  in  sight,  and 
all  at  once  Nannie  felt,  as  it  were,  an  im- 
prisoned soul  within  her  fluttering 
against  the  bars  of  its  cage. 

Dickens  tells  of  a  character  whose  un- 
worthy life  had  apparently  extinguished 
the  divine  spark,  and  yet,  down  deep 
within  her,  at  the  end  of  a  tortuous  pas- 
sage, there  was  a  door,  and  over  this  door 
was  the  word  womanhood.  Nannie  had 
such  a  door,  and  at  sight  of  that  tiny 
article  of  clothing  it  opened.  The  girl's 
heart — the  woman's  heart  was  crying  out 
now,  and  her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears 
she  did  not  understand. 


138  The  Gentle  Aft 

All  unconscious  of  the  pathos  of  the 
scene,  Constance  plied  her  dainty  needle, 
and  in  a  sweet  low  voice  talked  with  a 
young  girl  (Gertrude  Earnest  )who  sat 
at  her  feet. 

"A  story?" 

"Yes,   please,    Mrs.    Chance." 

Constance,  you  must  know,  was  a 
story  teller — not  of  a  reprehensible 
sort,  but  a  legitimate,  orthodox  one,  and 
locally  she  was  not  without  honor  on 
this  account. 

"Well,  then,  long,  long  ago,"  she  be- 
gan, "  in  the  dim  dawn  of  creation,  the 
gods  looked  down  upon  man  whom  they 
had  made,  and  realized  that  he  was  but  a 
poor  piece  of  work. 

"  'He  needs  other  gifts/  said  one. 

"  'Yea,  verily,'  murmured  another,  'but 
they  are  fraught  with  such  peril !' 

"  'Nevertheless  he  must  have  at  least 
one  more.  He  must  not  continue  uncon- 
scious even  of  what  is  taking  place 
around  him — the  acts  of  which  he  him- 
self is  a  part.' 

"And  so  they  sent  a  spirit  whose  eyes 


Of  Cooking  Wives* 

were  large  and  somber,  and  mankind  re- 
ceived her  with  open  arms,  not  knowing 
that  her  name  was  Realization.  Endowed 
with  this  immortal  gift,  they  no  longer 
groveled,  for  they  knew  what  was  pass- 
ing around  them — knew  what  part  they 
were  playing  in  the  great  drama,  Life. 
And  when  she  turned  her  happy  face 
toward  them  they  waxed  merry,  but  when 
they  saw  her  sterner  visage  they  wept. 

"Still  they  lacked  painfully,  living  as 
they  did  wholly  in  the  present,  sending 
never  a  backward  glance  along  the  echo- 
ing corridors  of  the  past — never  a  swift 
shaft  of  sight  along  the  dim  shadowy 
vistas  of  the  future.  And  the  gods  noted 
this  lack. 

'  'It  must  be  remedied/  said  one. 

"  'Nay !  nay !'  pleaded  another.  'Let 
them  be  as  they  are.  They  are  spared  so 
much  of  grief.' 

"  'They  are  also  denied  so  much  of 
joy/  said  the  first  with  gentle  firmness. 
'They  must  receive  their  gift  and  must 
pay  its  price/ 

"'Ah  the  price!  So  heavy!'  still 
pleaded  the  other. 


130  The  Gentle  Art 

"  'The  end  is  worth  the  pain,'  was  the 
reply. 

"And  so  another  spirit  was  sent  to 
earth,  and  she  too  had  a  double  aspect. 
One  face  was  lighted  by  a  happy,  dreamy 
smile;  the  other  was  lined  with  sharpest 
pain,  for  her  name  was  Memory. 

"  'One  more  gift  and  the  trio  is  com- 
plete/ the  gods  decreed. 

"  'Let  them  alone ;  in  mercy  let  them 
alone!'  pleaded  the  pitying  spirit.  'They 
have  enough  to  bear — enough  of  joy; 
enough  of  grief/ 

something  so   pathetic  about  his   whole 
bearing." 

"  'Nay,  nay.  They  are  but  imperfectly 
endowed.  They  look  about  them  at  the 
waves  that  lap  the  beach  on  which  they 
stand,  and  look  backward  o'er  the  sands 
of  Time,  but  send  never  a  glance  forward 
over  the  great  misty  ocean  of  the  Future.' 

"Then  down  from  the  other  world 
there  shot  a  gleam  of  golden  light  that 
rested  on  a  shadow,  and  willy-nilly — not 
knowing,  not  caring,  possibly  resisting 
had  they  fully  comprehended — mankind 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  131 

was  endowed  with  another  gift,  and  its 
name  was  Anticipation.  One  face  was 
dazzling  in  its  radiance — that  they  called 
Hope;  the  other  was  deep  with  gloom, 
and  that  was  Dread.  With  the  coming 
of  this  gift  the  veil  that  hung  athwart  the 
future  was  pierced,  and  mankind  saw  as 
the  gods  see,  not  only  what  was,  not  alone 
what  had  been,  but  what  was  to  be  as  well. 

"And  on  a  day  when  all  went  fair  they 
clung  to  these  three  gifts — Realization, 
Memory,  and  Anticipation — and  thanked 
the  gracious  gods,  but  on  another  day, 
when  Life  pressed  hard,  they  tried  to 
fling  them  off  and  cried  in  bitter  re- 
proach :  'Why  didst  thou  burden  us 
with  double-faced,  tormenting  creatures? 
Why  wore  they  not  a  single  face,  and  that 
a  happy  one?' 

"Then  down  through  the  immeasurable 
quivering  ether  that  veils  eternity  came 
the  answering  murmur,  tender  and  piti- 
ful as  a  strain  of  music  upon  a  broken 
heart : 

"  'Thou  canst  not  know — not  yet — 
some  day;  for  "now  we  see  through  a 
glass  darkly,  but  then  face  to  face." 


132  The  Gentle  Art 

And  when  the  story  was  told  Nannie 
was  weeping,  for  all  at  once  she  knew 
where  she  stood — all  at  once  looked  back- 
ward and  saw  what  she  had  done ;  looked 
forward  and  saw  what  was  to  come. 

But  betwixt  herself  and  Constance 
there  was  a  high  stone  wall,  called  Mis- 
understanding, and  Constance  did  not 
scale  this  wall,  and  so  lost  one  of  the 
sweetest  pleasures  known  to  mortals — 
helping  a  fellow-being  out  of  the  dark 
into  the  light. 

And  Nannie  hungered  and  went  home 
unfed. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  133 


IX 


IT  is  a  well-known  fact  that  many  a 
poor  wretch  has  gone  up  to  the  very  gate 
of  Paradise,  only  to  bound  back  again, 
as  if  either  he  himself  or  that  bar  to  bliss 
were  made  of  India  rubber.  Nothing 
could  be  more  tantalizing  or  discourag- 
ing to  the  spirit,  unless,  indeed,  it  were 
the  experience  of  many  a  despairing  and 
hoping  convalescent  who  is  bandied  about 
by  the  hand  of  fate  with  a  shuttlecock 
movement  betwixt  sickness  and  health. 

Many  of  us  feel  good  for  an  hour  at  a 
time,  several  hours  occasionally,  but  to  be 
good  overnight — to  waken  in  the  morn- 
ing with  one's  resolutions  and  aspirations 
as  crisp  and  fresh  as  they  were  the  even- 
ing before — is  proof  positive  of  regenera- 
tion. 

Once  in  a  while  it  occurs  to  the  rebel- 
lious that  things  might  have  been  made  a 


134  The  Gentle  Art 

trifle  easier.  For  instance,  if  only  one 
had  to  walk  miles  to  meet  the  tempter,  or 
if  only  he  had  the  decency  and  dignity 
to  demand  that  we  meet  him  half  way, 
instead  of  coming  all  the  way  himself  and 
invading  the  privacy  of  our  very  homes. 
If  only  he  would  wear  his  horns  and  tail 
all  the  time,  that  we  might  know  him  on 
sight  and  realize  what  we  are  about  when 
we  go  under,  instead  of  slinking  in 
clothed  as  an  angel  of  light.  Not  that 
the  Andersonvilles,  as  Nannie  called  the 
mother  and  son  Anderson,  looked  like 
angels  of  light.  On  the  contrary,  they 
were  as  ugly  as  the  evil  one,  but  they 
were  without  horns  or  tails,  and  so  not 
easily  recognizable  as  that  particular  and 
very  reprehensible  person.  And  Nannie 
was  lured  by  them  to  let  loose  her  spirit 
of  mischief. 

We  have  mentioned  neighbors  once  or 
twice  before.  Now,  the  biblical  defini- 
tion of  neighbor  covers  a  w'de  field,  and 
all  experience  will  bear  me  out  in  an  as- 
sertion, that  apart  from  numbers  the 
word  stands  for  all  sizes,  shapes,  and  vari- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  135 

eties  of  human  being.  Nowadays  most 
of  us  whisper  the  term  crazy,  realizing 
that  we  ourselves  are  liable  to  be  caught 
up  and  incarcerated  under  that  head. 
Nevertheless  within  ourselves  we  know 
that  some  of  those  about  us — and  we 
could  point  them  out  if  we  were  asked —  i 
are  trying  to  pass  off  cracked  brains  for 
sound  ones. 

Before  Steve  and  Nannie  had  been 
domiciled  more  than  a  fortnight  in  their 
new  abode,  where  they  had  fancied  that 
their  living  was  to  be  of  the  best,  a  fly  ap- 
peared in  the  ointment,  a  fly  which 
directly  proved  to  be  out  of  its  mind — in 
other  words,  they  discovered  that  they 
had  crazy  neighbors.  Let  no  one  under- 
stand me  to  signify  by  this  the  kind  of 
crazy  person  who  seizes  you  by  the  hair 
and  brandishes  his  fist  in  your  face,  de- 
claring that  your  hour  has  come.  That 
is  one  variety,  to  be  sure,  an  unpleasant 
variety,  too;  but  there  are  others.  If  it 
came  to  a  matter  of  weeding  out  all  those 
whose  brains  were  slightly  out  of  gear, 
most  of  us  could  appear  in  court  with  a 


136  The  Gentle  Art 

batch  of  crazy  neighbors,  thereby  depriv- 
ing a  city  of  some  of  its  principal  men 
and  society  of  some  of  its  chief  orna- 
ments. 

No  one  would  like  to  do  this,  but  when 
the  crack  in  a  neighbor's  brains  widens  so 
as  to  seriously  upset  his  notions  of  other 
people's  rights,  then  he  is  bound  to  be- 
come not  dangerous  necessarily,  but  cer- 
tainly troublesome,  and  some  step  must 
be  taken  in  self-defense. 

As  Steve  learned  too  late,  he  stood 
upon  contested  ground.  The  former 
owner  being  now  in  the  insane  asylum, 
and  having,  before  she  became  unbal- 
anced, deeded  the  property  to  her  hus- 
band (who  had  subsequently  sold  it  to 
Steve),  she  was  temporarily  out  of  the 
way,  but  it  seemed  that  by  some  over- 
sight she  had  left  outside  a  mother  and 
a  brother,  whom  she  should  have  taken 
in  with  her. 

These  relatives,  as  far  as  Steve  was 
able  to  learn,  never  claimed  that  the 
transfer  of  property  to  the  husband  was 
invalid  because  the  owner  was  at  that 


Of  Cooking  Wives*  137 

time  insane.  Their  claim  was  that  she 
had  not  gone  insane  at  all,  and  that  she 
had,  in  a  manner,  been  forced  into  deed- 
ing her  property  away,  and  consequently 
the  transaction  was  null  and  void  and  she 
still  owned  it.  A  written  document  to 
this  effect  was  posted  on  one  of  the 
largest  trees  near  the  house  soon  after 
the  newly  wedded  pair  moved  out  there, 
but  Steve  found  upon  investigation  that 
this  was  but  one  of  many  threads  form- 
ing a  cobweb  of  prodigious  size  within  the 
brains  of  these  peculiar  folk  whose  rela- 
tive had  outrun  them  to  the  asylum. 
Consequently  he  was  disposed  to  dismiss 
the  whole  matter  from  his  mind.  Not 
so  the  crazy  neighbors,  for  they  contin- 
ued to  post  the  contested  place  with 
notices,  and  Nannie  became  habituated  to 
plucking  several  of  these  legal  billets- 
doux  from  the  trees  every  morning  be- 
fore breakfast. 

All  this  was  great  sport  for  Nannie, 
but  the  trouble  soon  took  a  more  serious 
turn.  The  outcome  of  this  latter  was  an 
anonymous  notification  to  Steve  that  if 


138  The  Gentle  Art 

he  failed  to  take  down  an  obstruction 
which  he  had  put  across  one  of  the  roads 
on  his  place  to  prevent  its  being  used  as 
a  public  thoroughfare,  he  would  be 
mobbed  by  a  crowd  of  men  and  boys. 

"This  is  a  most  extraordinary  condi- 
tion of  affairs,"  said  Steve  one  day  in  talk- 
ing the  matter  over  with  Randolph 
Chance,  "to  be  racing  around  with  dogs 
and  cutlasses  when  you're  supposed  to  be 
cooling  your  brow  under  your  vine  and 
fig-tree." 

As  if  to  add  insult  to  injury,  the  An- 
dersons, mother  and  son,  made  a  passage- 
way of  the  place  they  claimed  (in  the 
name  of  their  daughter  and  sister)  and 
persisted  in  using  this,  in  spite  of  remon- 
strance and  even  warning. 

Now,  for  some  time  past  Nannie  had, 
by  means  best  known  to  women,  been 
contriving  to  fire  Steve's  usually  placid 
temper,  and  the  morning  after  her  visit 
to  Constance's  an  opportunity  presented 
itself  for  the  fanning  of  the  flames  she 
had  kindled.  On  opening  her  door  just 
after  breakfast  she  saw  mother  Anderson 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  139 

and  her  son  William  land  at  the  little 
private  pier  Steve  had  built,  and  then 
walk  with  a  bold  and  rugged  step  up 
toward  the  house  en  route  to  the  station, 
some  half  mile  to  the  rear. 

Now  was  Nannie's  chance! 

Such  fun  to  see  Steve  fight ! 

"Steve!"  she  screamed,  running  into 
the  house,  "here  are  those  dreadful  peo- 
ple again!  They  frighten  me  to  death! 
I  shall  never  dare  to  stay  here  alone  if 
you  don't  ma"  e  an  end  of  their  coming !" 
Frightened!  Ah,  Nannie!  with  that 
bright  color  and  those  dancing  eyes ! 

Steve  ran  out,  his  mind  aflame  at  last 
as  he  thought  of  poor  little  Nannie's  ter- 
rors and  the  offensive  note  he  had  re- 
ceived. 

"See  here,  Anderson,"  he  began,  "you 
have  been  asked  to  keep  away  from  this 
place.  It  has " 

But  just  here  William,  who  had  no  re- 
gard for  social  amenities,  cut  his  remarks 
short  by  a  resounding  slap  in  the  face. 

Steve  had  never  fought  in  his  life.  He 
was  rather  ashamed  of  this  (had  never 


140  The  Gentle  Art 

confessed  it),  and  the  time  seemed  ripe 
now  to  break  his  peace  record.  Drawing 
back,  to  give  himself  a  greater  spring,  he 
landed  a  heavy  blow  somewhere  in  mid- 
air. Said  locality  surviving  the  attack, 
he  withdrew  to  prepare  a  fresh  onslaught. 

Meanwhile  he  began  to  notice  that  he 
was  being  smartly  thumped  by  the  enemy, 
and  he  aimed  a  supreme  effort  in  that 
direction. 

His  blow  was  not  the  "immortal  pas- 
sado"  mentioned  by  Mercutio,  but  rather 
the  "punto  reverse,"  for  it  landed  him  in 
the  dust,  while  the  enemy  remained  on 
high. 

Just  at  this  juncture  mother  Anderson 
put  in  her  oar,  literally  as  well  as  figur- 
atively, for  happening  to  have  that  in- 
strument of  navigation  in  her  hand,  she 
proceeded  to  belabor  the  prostrate  Steve. 

"Stop  that!"  screamed  Nannie.  "Oh, 
you  bad,  fiendish  woman!  Sick  her, 


And  away  went  Brownie  and  attached 
himself  firmly  to  Madam  Anderson's 
train,  and  beginning  a  swift  rotary  move- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  141 

ment,  so  bewildered  the  old  lady  that  she 
lost  both  oar  and  enemy,  and  looked  more 
like  a  pirouette  dancer  than  a  decorous 
upholder  of  the  cause  of  individual  free- 
dom and  public  highways. 

By  this  time  Steve  had  regained  his 
perpendicular,  and  tingling  with  mortifi- 
cation, started  in  and  really  did  some  in- 
spired work.  Taking  the  foe  by  the  col- 
lar, he  shook  him  as  a  cat  would  shake 
a  rat. 

"You  little  puppy!  Get  out  of  here!" 
he  roared  in  a  most  unnatural  voice. 

Then  with  the  oar  (which  mother 
Anderson  had  abandoned  when  she  took 
to  dancing)  in  one  hand  and  the  dangling 
enemy  in  the  other,  he  proceeded  down 
the  slope,  out  upon  the  little  pier,  and 
after  sousing  the  refractory  William  in 
the  lake,  dropped  him  into  his  boat. 

"Now  you  follow  him,  and  be  off — 
both  of  you !"  he  said  sternly  to  madam, 
who  stood  upon  the  pier,  squawking  like 
an  old  hen  on  the  eve'  of  decapitation. 

She  lost  no  time  in  obeying  him,  albeit 
she  continued  to  work  nature's  bellows 


142  The  Gentle  Art 

with  great  vigor  as  Steve  threw  in  the 
oar  he  held  and  gave  the  boat  an  ener- 
getic thrust. 

"Steve,  you're  a  trump !"  cried  Nannie. 

Steve  looked  at  her  aghast. 

Was  this  the  timid  little  creature  he 
had  been  protecting?  Evidently  he  was 
as  much  at  sea  on  the  feminine  question 
as  before  marriage. 

He  walked  slowly  up  to  the  house  and 
managed  to  recover  his  breath  before  he 
was  called  for  the  next  scene  in  this  rural 
drama.  Truth  to  tell  he  was  disgusted, 
not  because  of  the  disgrace  of  a  quarrel, 
but — alas  for  mankind  in  even  his  gen- 
tlest aspect ! — because  he  had  failed  to  get 
a  crack  at  the  enemy. 

That  evening  near  dinner-time  the  plot 
was  thickened  by  the  arrival  of  the 
sheriff,  who  bore  a  warrant  for  the  entire 
Loveland  family — dog  included. 

"If  it  hedn't  been  a  new  jestice  she 
cudn't  hev  got  it  out,"  he  said  apologet- 
ically. "She's  arrested  everybody  in 
sight  agin  and  agin,  includin'  her  own 
fam'ly.  You  hev  yer  meal  now  an'  then 
come  'roun'  over  ter  the  jestice's  office." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  143 

'Accordingly,  after  dinner  Steve  and 
Nannie  walked  over  to  the  village,  and 
after  diligent  search  found  the  justice, 
who  informed  them  that  he  "did  hev  a 
place  fer  ther  trial,  but  they  tuk  it  from 
him  fer  a  show  an'  he  was  a-huntin'  fer 
another." 

This  other  being  finally  discovered, 
the  criminals — Steve,  Nannie  and 
Brownie — were  brought  in,  and  William 
Anderson,  being  duly  sworn,  was  perched 
up  in  an  aged  arm-chair  and  encouraged 
to  unfold  his  tale  of  woe  to  a  crowded 
house,  for  the  room  was  full,  and  even  the 
doors  and  windows  were  blocked  by  the 
heads  of  on-lookers. 

"It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,"  William  began  in  a  high, 
cracked  voice — possibly  his  neck  was  still 
dislocated.  "My  mother  and  myself  were 
on  our  way  to  meet  some  friends  whom 
we  expected  on  the  next  train.  Landing 
at  the  pier,  we  proceeded  up  toward  the 
cottage  now  fraudulently  occupied  by 
these  people."  ( Here  he  pointed  impress- 
ively at  the  wicked  ones,  whereupon 


144  The  Gentle  Art 

Brownie,  who  resented  this,  barked 
fiercely  and  was  promptly  smothered  by 
the  Court.)  "Rounding  a  corner  we  en- 
countered this  man"  (another  indication 
with  that  powerful  index  finger),  "who 
immediately  fell  upon  me  with  great  fe- 
roc-i-ty.  First  he  struck  me  mightily 
here — then  he  gave  me  a  terrific  blow 
here — then  one  of  unparalleled  strength 
here." 

By  this  time  Steve  was  bridling  up  and 
looking  like  a  conquering  hero.  He  really 
had  hit  the  man!  It  was  the  first  time 
he  or  any  one  else  had  known  it. 

"He  then  struck  me "  William 

continued,  but  the  Court  interrupted  him. 

"Here,  here.  You've  already  had 
enough  to  kill  ten  men." 

"That's  what  I  was  about  to  say,  your 
honor,  and  I  will  not  harrow  your  hon- 
or's feelings  by  telling  more  of  his  awful 
assault.  Seeing  that  I  was  suffering  in 
this  manner,  my  mother  approached  with 
an  oar,  when  she — her"  (indicating  Nan- 
nie by  pointing  fixedly  and  by  a  stony 
glare)  "rushed  upon  her  fiercely  and 


Of  Cooking  "Wives.  145 

caused  her  dog  also  to  charge  upon  her, 
which  he  did  so  savagely  as  to  decom- 
pose her  raiment.  In  some  way  the  oar 
flew  out  of  her  hand,  and  she  was  most 
disrespectfully  whirled  around  and 
around,  so  that  she  is  yet  dizzy-headed." 

Here  madam  put  her  hand  to  her  brow 
in  confirmation. 

"I  was  then  taken  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  down  to  the  pier,  and  whether  I 
fell  in  the  lake  or  not  I  cannot  say,  but  I 
was  wet!" 

Here  the  on-lookers  shouted  with 
laughter. 

"My  mother  was  then  disrespectfully 
helped  in  and  we  were  sent  adrift." 

He  ended  in  a  high-toned,  pitiful 
whine  suggestive  of  a  dog's  song  on  a 
moonlight  night,  but  this  plaint  was 
drowned  in  the  roars  of  laughter  raised 
by  the  audience. 

Madam  Anderson  confirmed  and  em- 
bellished this  tale,  but  Steve's  and  Nan- 
nie's narrative,  giving  the  circumstances 
of  the  case,  their  purchase  of  the  place, 
the  annoyances  to  which  these  people  had 


148  The  Gentle  Art 

subjected  them,  the  warning  that  had 
been  sounded  to  keep  them  at  arm's 
length,  and  the  continued  disregard  of 
all  this,  sufficed,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
Court,  to  acquit  them  and  fix  the  bur- 
den of  the  expenses  entailed  by  the  suit 
upon  the  Anderson  shoulders. 

One  would  have  supposed  that  this 
episode  would  have  satisfied  Nannie  for 
awhile,  but  she  was  tireless,  and  must 
needs  start  out  to  sit  hens  soon  after  the 
Andersons  were  laid  low.  Now,  of  all 
unreasoning,  stupid,  obstinate,  contrary 
beasts,  a  sitting  hen  is  well  qualified  to 
carry  off  the  first  prize.  Nannie  had  been 
told  that  when  a  hen  began  to  puff  up 
her  feathers  until  she  was  swollen  to 
about  three  times  her  natural  size,  and 
make  a  noise  that  sounded  as  if  she  had 
tried  to  say  something  and  the  word 
caught  on  a  hook  in  her  throat,  she  was 
ready  to  sit.  Having  three  feathered  ani- 
mals in  this  condition,  and  having  coaxed 
Steve  into  buying  some  Plymouth  Rock 
eggs  at  the  trivial  sum  of  three  dollars  a 
sitting,  Nannie  proceeded  to  capture  the 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  147 

hens  and  put  them  upon  nests  of  her  own 
placing,  wholly  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
if  there  is  one  thing  above  all  others  in 
which  a  hen  must  have  her  say,  it  was  in 
the  choice  of  residence  during  this  vex- 
atious period.  From  the  moment  that 
Nannie  put  the  hens  upon  the  eggs  she 
led  a  life  of  unexampled  activity.  No 
sooner  would  she  turn  her  back  than  the 
various  madams  would  rise,  and  with  dis- 
tended feathers  and  gurgling  clucks  dis- 
mount from  the  nests  and  begin  to  stalk 
around  the  yard,  in  defiance  of  directions 
to  the  contrary.  The  number  of  times 
that  Steve  was  pushed  under  one  side  of 
the  house  in  pursuit  of  the  escaped — luna- 
tic, I  had  almost  said,  and  told  to  remain 
there  while  Nannie  ran  around  and 
crawled  under  the  other  side  to  head  her 
off,  would  pass  belief.  As  a  matter  of 
course  she  was  never  caught  by  this 
double-barreled  attack,  but  always 
stalked  out  from  some  unexpected  crevice 
and  promenaded  the  yard  as  if  she  owned 
the  premises.  The  next  move  on  Steve's 
and  Nannie's  part  would  be  to  drive  her 


148  The  Gentle  Art 

nestward.  The  result  of  this  was  always 
to  land  her  in  some  place  precisely  oppo- 
site; for  the  moment  she  was  headed 
properly  she  would  tilt  her  wings  and 
break  into  a  fat,  wheezy  little  run  in  the 
direction  just  contrary  to  the  one  indi- 
cated by  common  sense  and  lawful 
authority. 

One  day,  after  an  hour  of  this  sport, 
Nannie  lost  patience,  and  picking  up 
stones,  pelted  the  feathered  truant  until 
she  fled  out  of  sight — in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion. 

"Let  her  eggs  cool!"  she  exclaimed 
with  a  burst  of  passionate  tears.  "I  don't 
care  if  they  get  as  cold  as  an  iceberg !  I 
wish  they'd  freeze  her  stiff  the  next  time 
she  sits  on  them !" 

Steve  began  a  mild  protest,  but  Nannie 
turned  to  walk  into  the  house,  when  she 
caught  sight  of  Madam  Hen  No.  2  off 
her  nest  and  stalking  around  with  the 
same  offensive  strut  as  that  of  No.  i. 

This  was  too  much  for  her  own  nerv- 
ous system,  and  she  rushed  upon  the 
offending  hen,  and  kept  up  this  pace  with 


Of  Cooking  "Wives.  149 

such  vigor  that  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes 
she  had  run  her  down,  taken  her  liter- 
ally in  hand,  borne  her  squawking  into 
the  barn,  jammed  her  down  on  the  nest, 
and  roofed  it  with  boards,  which  she 
nailed  on  with  rocks.  This  done,  she  re- 
turned to  the  house  in  a  state  of  savage 
quiet  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a  contradic- 
tory term),  feeling  herself  fiercely  secure 
of  at  least  one  sitting. 

She  was  not,  however,  for  madam 
spared  no  effort  till  she  burst  her  bonds, 
brought  the  rocks  down  upon  the  heads 
of  herself  and  her  prospective  family,  and 
they  all  died  the  death  together. 

"There's  some  satisfaction  in  that," 
said  Nannie.  "The  stupid,  nasty,  mean 
old  thing  went  with  the  eggs !" 

The  third  sitting  materialized,  and  a 
lovelier  brood  of  chicks  was  never  seen. 
Steve  was  surprised  and  even  touched  as 
he  stood  watching  Nannie  in  her  delight. 
There  was  something  really  womanly  in 
the  way  in  which  the  girl  coddled  the 
pretty  creatures,  holding  them  close  to 
her  face  and  calling  them  all  the  sweet, 


150  The  Gentle  Art 

tender  little  names  in  which  a  woman's 
heart  goes  out  to  the  infantile  and  the 
helpless. 

Looking  and  thinking,  several  things 
came  into  Steve's  mind,  and  one  evening 
he  essayed  to  bring  about  a  better  under- 
standing betwixt  his  erratic  little  wife 
and  himself.  But  alas!  though  possessed 
of  an  unusually  tender  heart  and  of  un- 
usually fine  intuitions,  yet  occasionally 
Steve  was  a  man,  pure  and  simple,  and 
this  was  one  of  the  occasions.  Just  as 
Nannie  was  sitting  down  to  dinner  he, 
said: 

"Nannie,  I've  been  wondering  what  is 
it  that  makes  you  act  so?" 

"I  don't  act!"  stormed  Nannie,  who 
was  ablaze  in  a  minute.  "It's  you  who 
act!  You  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  two- 
year-old  child!"  Then,  in  a-  gust  of 
changed  emotion,  she  took  a  step  nearer 
to  him  and  cried  out : 

"I  don't  want  to  be  bad,  but" — she 
turned  now  toward  the  door,  and  as  she 
went  out  looked  backward  over  her 
shoulder  and  added  impishly — "I  am, 
and  I'm  'fraid  I'm  going  to  be." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  151 

And  off  she  went — off  to  the  barn,  and 
the  next  moment  there  was  a  lonely, 
yearning  child-wife  sobbing  her  heart  out 
on  Sarah  Maria's  neck. 

Evidently  there  was  a  bond  between 
these  two,  for  Nannie  was  neither  hooked 
nor  kicked,  and  when  Sarah  Maria  be- 
haved peacefully  at  both  ends  it  was  man- 
ifest that  her  heart  was  touched. 


152  The  Gentle  Art 


X 


STEVE  returned  from  town  the  evening 
following  Nannie's  outburst  with  a  mind 
heavy  laden.  That  had  been  his  mental 
condition,  indeed,  much  of  the  time  since 
he  turned  farmer,  and  I  may  add  that  his 
thoughts  occasionally  ran  in  a  sarcastic 
vein — a  course  ordinarily  foreign  to  him. 
Shortly  before  that  crucial  point  in  his 
career,  his  marriage  to  Nannie,  Randolph 
Chance  had  loaned  him  a  beautiful  idyl, 
termed  "Liberty  and  a  Living."  Ran- 
dolph himself  had  read  this  as  a  thirsty 
man  reads  of  cool,  rock-paved  brooks; 
Steve  read  it  as  a  poet,  a  dreamer,  but  it 
would  no  doubt  have  had  a  marked  effect 
upon  his  character  had  he  not  closely  fol- 
lowed it  up  with  Charles  Dudley  War- 
ner's "Summer  in  a  Garden,"  much  as 
one  would  chase  a  poison  with  its  anti- 
dote, only  in  this  case  the  order  was  re- 
versed, the  latter  resembling  the  poison, 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  153 

since  it  awoke  in  his  mind  gloomy  fore- 
bodings and  inspired  satirical  reflections 
upon  the  universal  mother. 

Tuned  to  this  key,  he  was  no  doubt 
ill-prepared,  while  turning  the  clod,  to  re- 
ceive into  his  soul  the  sweet  influences  of 
rural  life,  and  by  reason  of  their  elevat- 
ing beauty,  to  be  fortified  against  those 
drawbacks  and  trials  with  which  all  paths 
abound. 

Truth  to  tell,  Steve  was  discouraged. 
He  had  begun  to  realize  that  he  had  on 
his  hands  not  only  a  small  farm,  for  the 
tillage  of  which  he  was  ill-contrived,  but 
a  large  child  as  well,  whose  rearing  and 

developing Just  here  he  came  to 

a  sudden  halt  in  his  thought,  and  an 
odd  word  leaped  in: 

"Cooking!" 

Then  the  name  of  that  newspaper  clip- 
ping of  which  Randolph  once  told  him — 

"How  to  Cook  Wives." 

"Well,  how  in  thunder?"  he  asked 
himself,  and  walked  homeward  from  the 
station. 

Ere  he  arrived  he  saw  Nannie  at  the 


154  The  Gentle  Art 

door.  She  was  screaming  something 
which,  on  his  approach,  he  found  to  be — 

"Sarah  Maria  is  lost !" 

Had  Steve  said  "thank  Heaven!"  he 
would  merely  have  been  speaking  out  of 
the  fullness  of  his  heart.  Instead  of 
that,  he  wheeled  like  an  automaton  and 
retraced  his  steps.  He  knew  where  to 
look  for  her. 

There  she  was,  as  usual,  down  near  the 
track,  and  as  Steve  approached  she 
stepped  squarely  on,  and  with  a  set  gaze 
awaited  the  speedy  coming  of  the  city- 
bound  train.  Of  course  she  knew  it 
would  kill  her,  but  like  Samson  of  old 
she  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  taking 
a  few  acquaintances  with  her. 

Steve  dragged  her  off  and  managed  to 
get  her  home,  and  thus  for  the  present 
prevented  the  sin  of  self-destruction. 

That  very  evening,  after  Nannie,  like  the 
cow,  was  corralled  (and  we  may  use  this 
term  without  reproach,  since  she  had  been 
rampant  all  day),  a  small  figure  slipped 
from  out  the  house  and  hastened  to  the 
garden.  His  little  face,  frowsy  as  is  the 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  155 

manner  of  his  breed,  was  uplifted,  and 
his  saucy  little  eyes  gleamed  with  fire. 
He  had  probably  observed  that  the  peas 
were  flourishing  and  that  they  were  the 
one  living  result  of  Steve's  heroic  labors, 
unless  perhaps  we  except  the  corn,  which 
was  still  several  miles  distant  from  fruit- 
age. No  doubt  all  this  was  clear  to 
Brownie,  and  that  was  why  he  took  such 
fiendish  delight  in  his  work  of  demoli- 
tion. The  naughty  little  eyes  twinkled; 
the  naughty  little  mouth  opened  to  emit 
his  short-breathed  pants ;  and  the  naughty 
little  tongue  hung  out  as  he  pranced  and 
leaped,  rolled  and  gamboled  over  the 
cast-down  and  dejected  peas.  Finally  he 
chewed  and  tore  the  fragments  that  re- 
mained, and  then  gave  himself  a  shake — 
by  no  means  so  severe  as  he  deserved — 
and  strutted  into  the  house  with  a 
"They're-done-for !"  air,  quite  exasperat- 
ing to  witness  when  one  considered  how 
the  poor  peas  were  lying  out  there  prone 
upon  their  faces  in  the  dust,  crushed  to 
earth,  unlike  truth,  to  rise  no  more. 
The  next  morning,  all  unconscious  of 


156  The  Gentle  Art 

the  ruin  of  his  crop,  Steve  was  deliber- 
ately making  his  toilet,  when  he  was 
startled  by  roars  of  fright.  Looking 
from  the  window,  he  perceived  a  neigh- 
bor flying  down  the  road,  with  Sarah 
Maria  in  his  wake.  The  latter  had 
lowered  her  head — not  in  shame,  I  grieve 
to  say,  but  with  malicious  intent,  as  was 
abundantly  evidenced  by  the  height  of 
her  tail. 

Happily  Nannie  had  seen  this  proces- 
sion of  two  as  it  passed  the  house,  and 
giving  chase  with  swift  steps,  had  caught 
Sarah  Maria's  long  rope  and  wound  it 
several  times  around  a  large  tree,  thus 
checking  her  mad  career  and  saving  a 
worthy  citizen  for  the  republic. 

The  excitement  attendant  upon  all  this 
was  very  great,  especially  as  the  neighbor 
was  for  a  time  firmly  resolved  to  bring 
action,  not  being  satisfied  with  the  action 
Sarah  Maria  had  brought,  but  by  dint 
of  much  persuasion,  both  from  Steve  and 
also  from  Randolph  Chance,  who  came  to 
the  rescue,  he  was  at  length  called  off, 
and  Steve  was  so  relieved  that  he  was 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  157 

able  to  note  the  destruction  of  his  peas 
with  scarce  a  ripple  of  emotion. 

The  calm  of  the  succeeding  twenty-four 
hours  was  but  that  which  precedes  the 
storm,  and  the  glassy  placidity  of  Steve's 
life  for  that  one  day  proved  to  be  the  de- 
ceitful stillness  of  deep  waters.  Upon  his 
return  from  the  city  he  was  again  greeted 
with  the  welcome  intelligence  that  Sarah 
Maria  had  raised  her  head,  adjusted  her 
hind  legs,  whose  hinges,  owing  to  much 
kicking,  had  been  reversed  of  late,  and 
betaken  herself  to  parts  unknown.  Worn 
out  as  he  was  with  the  events  of  the  past 
week,  Steve  was  unequal  to  a  discreet 
concealment  of  his  feelings,  and  the  satis- 
faction he  evinced  in  Nannie's  news  was 
stoutly  resented  by  that  singular  young 
person.  Indeed,  she  became  so  wrought 
up — crying,  upbraiding,  and  lamenting — 
that  Steve  was  obliged  to  console  her  by 
promising  to  advertise  the  errant  beast 
if  she  were  not  found  at  her  usual  tryst- 
ing-place — the  railroad  track.  This  he 
did,  repeating  the  dose  daily  for  a  week, 
at  the  end  of  which  time  he  received 


158  The  Gentle  Art 

word  that  Sarah  Maria  had  temporarily 
located  herself  on  a  farm  some  forty 
miles  inland.  Not  being  well  disposed  to 
a  walk  of  that  length,  enlivened  by  Sarah 
Maria's  society,  Steve  sent  word  to  for- 
ward the  lady  by  freight. 

Owing  to  some  mistake  her  car  was 
switched  off  about  ten  miles  from  the 
proper  station,  and  thinking  that  he  could 
bridge  that  distance,  Steve  set  out  on  a 
train  early  the  next  evening,  and  soon 
found  himself  in  reach  of  the  missing 
member  of  his  household.  She  was  look- 
ing out  of  the  freight  car  when  he  ar- 
rived, and  he  noted  with  a  secret  qualm 
that  she  shook  her  head  disapprovingly 
when  she  saw  him. 

Steve  stood  and  gazed  at  her  for  so 
long  that  the  man  in  charge  there  finally 
asked  him  what  he  was  waiting  for. 
Steve  replied  that  she  looked  so  happy  it 
seemed  a  pity  to  disturb  her.  The  man 
said  that  he  didn't  regard  her  as  particu- 
larly happy,  inasmuch  as  she  had  all  but 
kicked  out  one  side  of  the  car.  Upon 
hearing  which,  Steve  hastened  to  assure 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  159 

him  that  that  was  merely  a  playful  way 
of  hers  when  her  spirits  were  at  the  high- 
est, but  the  man  said  that  her  spirits  were 
several  feet  too  high  for  him,  and  he  in- 
sisted upon  lowering  them  to  terra  firma. 
He  was  so  firm  and  so  disagreeable  about 
this  that  Steve  was  obliged  to  advance 
and  join  him  in  the  difficult  undertaking. 

It  might  seem  reasonable  to  expect  that 
as  long  as  Sarah  Maria  had  testified  vig- 
orously to  her  disapproval  of  the  freight 
car  she  would  be  glad  to  issue  from  it, 
and  no  doubt  that  would  have  been  the 
case  had  Steve  and  the  station  master 
urged  her  to  remain.  The  moment,  how- 
ever, that  she  saw  with  her  eagle  eye  that 
they  were  making  preparations  for  her 
ejectment,  her  mind  was  made  up,  and 
she  spread  her  four  feet  in  a  manner  sug- 
gestive of  rocks  that  refuse  to  fly. 

The  unhappy  men  now  united  their  ef- 
forts at  pulling,  but  her  roots  had  evi- 
dently gone  down  to  China  without  stop- 
ping; next  they  endeavored  to  pry  her 
up,  but  she  was  manifestly  stuck  by  some 
glue  of  unparalleled  strength. 


160  The  Gentle  Art 

By  this  time  the  honest  sweat  was  drip- 
ping from  the  brows  of  both  men ;  Sarah 
Maria  alone  was  calm.  Various  devices 
were  used  to  dislodge  her,  and  at  the  end 
of  an  hour  she  had  moved  a  trifle  further 
than  a  glacier  does  in  a  similar  length  of 
time,  and  was  fully  as  cold  and  calm  as 
this  natural  phenomenon.  As  she  was 
quite  near  the  opening  of  the  car  when 
she  took  her  stand,  in  a  physical  as  well 
as  in  a  moral  sense,  even  the  very  slight 
advantage  gained  by  her  enemies  sufficed 
to  put  her  in  position  to  make  her  final 
exit  when,  like  Sairy  Gamp,  she  was  "so 
dispodged." 

"Now,"  said  the  station  master,  who 
by  this  time  had  not  so  much  as  a  dry 
thread  on  him,  "if  you'll  pull  I'll  twist 
her  tail  so's  to  divert  her  attention,  and 
I  guess  we'll  make  a  go  of  it." 

Steve  looked  into  the  threatening  eye 
of  Sarah  Maria,  and  foreseeing  his  doom 
if  he  stood  in  front  of  her,  told  the  sta- 
tion master  that  as  Sarah,  for  some 
reason,  seemed  disinclined  to  love  him, 
she  might  be  unwilling  to  go  in  his  direc- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  161 

tion,  and  for  that  reason  he  would  better 
keep  out  of  sight. 

"So,"  he  continued,  "if  you  will  kindly 
pull  I  will  kindly  twist" 

Steve  was  always  polite,  and  never 
more  so  than  when  excited. 

The  suggestion  appealed  to  the  inno- 
cent station  master,  who  saw  no  hidden 
intent  in  Steve's  retreat,  and  the  change 
of  position  having  been  effected,  the  two 
men  went  to  work. 

For  a  time  Steve  twisted  gently,  but 
firmly,  while  the  station  master  tugged 
and  jerked,  but  still  none  of  these  things 
moved  her. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  transformation 
scene,  and  it  came  about  as  suddenly  as 
a  flash  of  lightning  from  out  a  clear  sky. 
The  participants  never  could  give  a  clear 
and  harmonious  account  of  what  hap- 
pened, and  all  that  an  idle  on-looker 
could  tell  was  that  while  he  was  gazing 
he  suddenly  heard  something  strike  the 
roof  of  the  car ;  in  another  instant  he  had, 
after  the  occasional  custom  of  nations, 
recognized  the  belligerency  of  Sarah 


162  The  Gentle  Aft 

Maria.  When  the  din  of  battle  had  sub- 
sided he  beheld  Steve  arising  from  the 
earth  somewhere  in  the  rear  of  the  car, 
while  the  station  master,  on  all  fours, 
was  in  the  act  of  picking  himself  up  from 
a  spot  just  in  front  of  where  Sarah  had 
lately  made  her  heroic  stand. 

Steve  was  in  no  wise  perturbed  or  even 
surprised.  He  realized  that  the  bovine 
belonged  to  the  gentle  sex,  and  anything 
was  to  be  expected.  As  long  as  Sarah 
Maria  and  his  wife  spared  his  life,  he  felt 
that  he  had  no  just  cause  for  complaint; 
both  ladies  were  erratic,  and  he  must  sim- 
ply look  for  whatever  happened. 

Unfortunately,  as  Steve  regarded  it, 
Sarah  Maria  had  not  taken  her  departure, 
her  long  rope  having  caught  around  a 
tree  and  detained  her.  She  was  well  out 
of  the  car,  however,  and  the  station  mas- 
ter washed  his  hands  of  her. 

It  was  by  this  time  nearing  dusk,  and 
Steve  set  out  on  his  long  walk  toward 
home  with  many  misgivings.  Under 
happy  circumstances  a  walk  in  the  coun- 
try along  the  brookside,  through  mead- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  163 

ows  and  woods  in  the  evening  is  quieting, 
but  Steve  found  it  the  reverse  of  this  to- 
night. Not  that  he  had  no  still  moments, 
in  which  the  brain  might  work  and 
memory  hold  sway;  there  were  such,  in- 
deed, at  first,  for  Sarah  Maria  set  out 
with  him  so  gently  and  quietly  that  the 
station  master  concluded  she  must  be  one 
of  those  feminines  who  wax  irritable 
when  their  way  of  life  is  disturbed,  and 
that  once  relieved  of  the  box-car  she 
would  proceed  as  a  domestic  animal 
should. 

Even  Steve  began  to  entertain  hopes 
of  her  reformation,  but  these  were  soon 
dashed  to  the  ground,  and  he  went  with 
them.  He  arose  (he  had  by  this  time  be- 
come an  expert  at  arising),  and  again 
there  was  a  truce,  which  he  gratefully 
accepted,  for  he  was  ready  enough  to 
enjoy  peace  while  it  lasted. 

Walking  by  a  brook  which  skirted  a 
little  farm,  his  mind  was  busy  with  re- 
flections. Heretofore  he  had  looked  at 
these  places  and  seen  them  in  the  gross, 
as  it  were;  now  no  detail  escaped  him. 


164  The  Gentle  Art 

He  saw  to-night  that  the  weeds  were 
rampant  among-  the  peas  and  that  in  the 
next  bed  the  onions  were  drooping,  evi- 
dently having  been  trampled  upon. 

"Why  is  it,"  he  argued  gently  to  him- 
self, "vicious  things  flourish  in  the  face 
of  every  discouragement,  while  it  requires 
so  much  coaxing  and  care  to  keep  good 
and  useful  articles  above  ground?  One 
might  jump  up  and  down  on  a  weed  con- 
tinuously every  day  for  a  month,  and 
the  moment  his  back  was  turned  it  would 
be  up  again,  whereas  once  stepping  on 
a  young  blade  of  corn  or  the  first  shoots 
of  an  onion  is  the  end  of  it." 

Then  he  looked  at  Sarah  Maria  and 
bethought  him  how  she  never  had  a  sick 
day  since  they  owned  her,  while  a  tract- 
able, useful  cow  would  have  died  half  a 
dozen  times  over  in  this  period,  of  pneu- 
monia or  consumption. 

"Why  is  it?"  he  asked. 

He  might  have  answered  this  question 
and  thus  solved  a  problem  that  has  been 
perplexing  humanity  ever  since  Adam 
and  Eve  were  told  to  go,  but  Sarah  Maria 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  165 

preferred  her  own  movements  to  those  of 
the  intellect,  and  realizing  that  it  was 
growing  late,  she  set  off  on  a  hard  run 
for  home. 

Now  Steve  had  never  in  his  college 
days,  ranked  as  an  athlete,  but  as  he  flew 
over  the  ground  that  night,  with  the  long 
rope  that  bridged  the  difference  betwixt 
himself  and  Sarah  Maria  quite  taut,  he 
,had  an  injured  feeling,  as  of  one  to 
whom  injustice  had  been  done.  Not  even 
the  champion  runner  had  ever  made  such 
time. 

The  violence  of  his  gait  would  have 
proved  exhaustive  had  it  been  too  long 
continued,  but  Sarah  Maria  was  merciful, 
and  ere  long  Steve  came  upon  her  stand- 
ing in  her  box-car  attitude.  She  loosened 
up  by-and-by  and  again  started  toward 
home  with  the  speed  of  a  race-horse,  but 
this  time  Steve  was  in  front,  and  could 
his  friends  have  seen  how  well  he  kept 
in  front  they  would  have  covered  him 
with  adulation. 

Before  long  the  rope  was  taut  once  more, 
and  Steve's  sense  of  security  was  in  such 


166  The  Gentle  Art 

marked  and  delightful  contrast  to  his 
feelings  when  it  slackened  that  he  told 
Sarah  Maria  repeatedly  to  take  her  time 
— he  was  in  no  hurry  whatever.  Neither 
was  Sarah,  apparently,  for  between  balk- 
ing and  running,  and  capering  about  in 
a  truly  extraordinary  manner  she  passed 
the  better  portion  of  the  night.  Finally, 
in  despair,  Steve  laid  the  case  before  her 
and  asked  if  she  would  look  at  the  mat- 
ter dispassionately  and  consider  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour  and  their  distance  from 
the  domestic  roof — would  she,  he  urged, 
keep  this  great  central  truth  in  sight? 

She  said  that  she  would  not,  and  she 
said  it  so  rudely  that  Steve  felt  hurt. 
When  he  had  gotten  up  and  given  himself 
a  good  rubbing,  he  found  that  Sarah 
Maria,  like  some  little  angel,  had  gone 
before,  and  he  hobbled  after  her  as  fast 
as  his  bruises  would  permit. 

They  reached  home  at  last,  and  a  late 
moon  glowered  down  at  them  with  calm 
severity.  Truth  to  tell,  both  Steve  and 
Sarah  looked  as  if  they  had  been  on  a 
spree,  and  both  were  callous  as  to  ap- 


Of  Cooking-  Wives.  167 

pearances.     Their  one  idea  was  to  part 
company  as  soon  as  possible. 

Out  of  respect  to  the  Society  for  the 
Prevention,  and  so  forth,  Steve  decided 
to  give  his  interesting  companion  a  drink ; 
then  he  would  have  done  with  her  for- 
ever. Having  secured  her  to  a  near  tree,  , 
he  approached  the  pump,  pail  in  hand. 

But  Sarah  Maria  was  watching  him 
narrowly,  and  as  she  looked  there  ran- 
kled in  her  seemingly  quiet  breast  the 
memory  of  her  wrongs.  There  was  still 
a  twist  in  her  tail,  left  over  from  the  box- 
car, and  several  kinks  in  her  temper,  and 
influenced  by  these  she  approached  Steve 
just  as  he  bent  to  lift  the  pail,  and  slip- 
ping her  horns  under  him,  dexterously 
lifted  him  from  the  ground  and  sent  him 
crashing  through  the  nearest  window, 
which  chanced  to  be  that  of  his  chamber. 

"For  the  love  of  mercy!"  screamed 
Nannie,  starting  up  from  her  sleep  in  the 
next  room,  "what  is  happening  now?" 

"I'm  coming  to  bed,"  said  Steve. 


The  Gentle  Art 


XI 


STEVE  was  so  used  up  by  his  rural  ex- 
periences that  he  could  scarcely  get  out  of 
bed  the  next  day.  And  that  was  not  the 
worst  of  it :  his  temper  was  bruised  as 
well  as  his  body,  as  was  manifest  by  the 
way  he  behaved.  Not  that  he  stormed  or 
sulked;  Steve  was  above  anything  of 
this  kind;  but  he  did  speak  very  decided- 
ly, for  him,  as  he  rose  from  his  late  break- 
fast. 

"Nannie,"  he  said,  "you  may  do  as  you 
wish  about  the  cow.  I  think  it  might  be 
well  to  sell  her  for  beef — she  is  in  good 
condition.  But  do  as  you  wish  about 
that — she  is  yours;  but  I  really  cannot 
undertake  to  have  anything  more  to  do 
with  her." 

For  some  time  after  Steve  left  the 
house  Nannie  sat  staring  in  the  direction 
in  which  he  had  disappeared.  She  was 
as  much  amazed  as  she  had  been  the  day 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  169 

he  fought  the  Andersonvilles,  but  less 
elated. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  herself  at  last,  "the 
upshot  of  it  all  is,  he's  given  Sarah 
Maria  notice.  I  wonder  if  he  will  give 
me  notice  next?" 

She  walked  slowly  into  the  kitchen, 
where  a  stout,  red-faced  woman  was  at 
work. 

"Bridget,"  she  said,  "can  you  milk?" 

"Shure  I  kin;  an'  why?" 

"Because  Mr.  Loveland  won't  milk 
Sarah  Maria  any  more." 

"No  more  wud  I,  an'  he's  stud  it  so 
long.  Shure  he's  been  loike  a  lamb  be- 
side her,  an'  she  hookin'  him  full  o'  holes 
till  his  poor  body  cud  be  used  for  a  sieve." 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do!"  cried  Nannie 
pettishly.  "You're  all  of  you  as  mean  as 
you  can  be!  I  won't  sell  her  for  beef! 
I  just  won't!" 

"No  more  you  needn't,  me  darlint ! 
There,  now,  don't  take  on  so.  Shure  it's 
mesilf'll  manage  it  wid  yez  somehow, 
though  it's  loike  the  both  of  us  will  nade 
the  praste  an'  extrame  unction  before 
we're  t'rough  wid  her." 


170  The  Gentle  Art 

Nothing  daunted  Nannie  sallied  forth, 
followed  by  Bridget,  who  grumbled  all 
the  way. 

"Faith,  in  ould  Oireland  it's  mesilf 
milked  twinty  cows  at  wan  sittin',  an' 
they  standin'  forninst  me  widout  a  word 
loike  lambs  till  I  was  ready  fer  the  nixt 
wan." 

"Well,  now,  that's  great!"  interrupted 
Nannie.  "Steve  has  left  her  right  out 
here.  I  wonder  why  he  did  that  ?" 

Mrs.  Maria  stared  fixedly  at  her,  once 
in  awhile  tossing  her  horns.  There  was 
a  glare  in  her  eye,  by  the  light  of  which 
one  might  read  her  thoughts. 

"Just  here,"  she  was  saying  to  herself, 
"Steve  and  I  fought  to  a  finish,  and  I 
saw  the  last  of  him  as  he  flew  through 
yonder  window." 

"Set  a  pail  of  food  forninst  her  now, 
Miss  Nannie,  an*  she'll  run  to  the  cow- 
yard,"  called  Bridget. 

This  ruse  proved  successful.  As  soon 
as  she  saw  the  food  the  delighted  Sarah 
kicked  up  her  heels  and,  flourishing  her 
head  in  such  a  manner  that  it  seemed  to 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  171 

comprehend  everything  in  its  wide  swath, 
ran  into  the  cow-yard,  where  Nannie 
skillfully  lassoed  her  and  tied  her  to  the 
fence  just  as  she  plunged  her  nose  into 
the  pail. 

Meanwhile  Bridget,  terrified  by  these 
lively  humors,  had  started  toward  the 
house,  and  her  desire  for  speed  exceeding 
her  physical  ability,  she  soon  measured 
her  length  upon  the  ground,  where  she 
lay,  roaring  lustily,  under  the  impression 
that  the  enemy  was  upon  her. 

"What  are  you  howling  for,  you  old 
goose?"  shouted  Nannie. 

"It's  the  cow!"  screamed  Bridget. 
"Take  her  off !  Oh,  howly  Mither !  I'm 
kilt  entirely." 

"The  cow  is  half  a  mile  from  you!" 
laughed  Nannie.  "She  didn't  even  look 
toward  you." 

"Shure  I  felt  her  horns  go  into  me 
back,  an'  as  the  saints  live  in  glory,  I 
see  thim  come  out  at  me  brist." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  could  see  you  come  out 
at  the  cow-yard  with  that  milk  pail." 

Bridget  picked  up  her  pieces,  put  her- 


172  The  Gentle  Art 

self  together,  and  discontentedly  ambled 
toward  the  cow-yard,  averring  that  in 
spite  of  all  Nannie  might  say,  she  knew 
she  had  a  hole  an  inch  wide  in  her  left 
lung;  she  could  feel  the  wind  whistle 
through  it. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  your 
lungs,"  said  Nannie,  "as  all  the  neighbor- 
hood knows  by  this  time." 

With  a  long,  solemn  countenance  and 
a  tear  in  each  eye,  Bridget  approached 
Sarah  Maria,  who  was  breakfasting  in  a 
hasty,  unhygienic  manner. 

"It's  me  life  I  take  in  me  hand,"  mur- 
mured Bridget. 

"Drop  your  life  and  take  your  pail  in- 
stead, or  are  you  going  to  milk  into  your 
apron?"  said  Nannie  imperiously. 

"Oh,  me  pail !  Shure  the  head  of  me  is 
turned  intirely,  bad  cess  to  that  cow!  or 
I  believe  there's  a  hole  through  it,  loike 
there  is  in  me  lung." 

"Your  head  turned!"  said  Nannie 
scornfully.  "I  should  say  it  was — turned 
inside  out  and  emptied  entirely." 

But  Bridget  was  wooing  Mrs.  Maria 
now. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  173 

"Aisy,  now!  Aisy,  I  say!"  she  mut- 
tered as  she  cautiously  lowered  herself 
onto  the  milking  stool. 

But  by  some  mysterious  law  of  oppo- 
sites,  as  she  went  down  the  pail  went  up. 
Sarah  Maria  never  ceased  munching  for 
a  moment,  but  Nannie,  who  was  fixedly 
regarding  her  and  trying  to  calculate  how 
much  longer  her  breakfast  would  last, 
heard  the  crash,  and  looking  around  saw 
the  pail  on  its  way  upward. 

"Now  may  the  saints  forgive  me  if  I 
imperil  me  life  anny  longer!"  cried  Brid- 
get from  a  safe  distance. 

"And  may  Sarah  Maria  forgive  you 
for  sitting  down  on  the  wrong  side  of 
her,  you  old  goose !"  screamed  Nannie  in 
her  rude  way. 

"Howly  Mither  defind  us!  Did  I  do 
that  now?  Shure  the  twinty  cows  I 
milked  in  ould  Oireland  preferred  that 
side,  an'  they  were  very  particular  about 
it,  ivery  last  wan  of  thim." 

"Now,  don't  crawl  along  that  way," 
said  Nannie  impatiently  as  Bridget  crept 
up  to  her,  "and  take  hold  as  if  you 
weren't  afraid." 


174  The  Gentle  Art 

"Shure  if  I  had  a  shillalah  wid  a  sucker 
on  the  ind  of  it,  it's  milk  her  I  wud,  wid- 
out  anny  loss  of  me  color,  though  she 
thritened  me  wid  twinty  horns  an'  as 
manny  hind  legs." 

"Oh,  you've  got  several  bees  in  your 
bonnet,  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
you!"  exclaimed  Nannie. 

"Is  it  bees,  ye  say?  Air  they  loose 
too?"  screamed  Bridget,  jerking  off  her 
sunbonnet  and  tearing  down  her  hair. 
"Is  it  bees  as  well  as  cows  in  me  hid,  an' 
ye  standin'  laffin  loike  ter  kill  yersilf  at 
the  very  idee  of  me  bein'  murdered  in 
cold  blud!" 

By  this  time  her  hair  was  distraught 
and  her  face  flaming  with  excitement  and 
exertion,  and  altogether  she  so  closely 
resembled  some  avenging  spirit  that  even 
Sarah  Maria  began  to  tremble  before  her. 

As  soon  as  Nannie  could  control  her- 
self she  informed  her  that  the  terrifying 
words  she  used  were  merely  a  figure  of 
speech. 

"Clothed  or  not  clothed '  Nannie 

began,  but  Bridget  burst  forth: 

"An'  I  wuldn't  hev  belaved  that  anny 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  175 

young  leddy  wid  a  dacent  raisin'  wud  use 
figgers  of  spache,  widout  clothes  at  that. 
It's  Bridget  O'Flannigan'll  see  if " 

But  here  Nannie's  screams  of  laughter 
interrupted  her. 

"I  believe  you've  a  brick  in  your  bon- 
net as  well  as  a  bee,"  she  exclaimed. 

This  time  Bridget  understood,  and 
clapping  her  sunbonnet  (upside  down) 
onto  her  disrumpled  head,  she  wabbled 
toward  the  house. 

This  would  never  do,  so  Nannie  ran 
and  planted  herself  in  front  of  her. 

"Come,  now,  Bridget — dear  Bridget, 
don't  be  mad  with  me,"  she  said  coax- 
ingly. 

Bridget  had  come  to  Mrs.  Lament's 
when  Nannie  was  little  more  than  eight 
years  of  age,  and  through  the  succeeding 
years  of  childhood  and  girlhood  had  been 
her  stanch  friend  and  her  confidante  in 
many  a  time  of  trouble. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  my  cow?  You 
surely  will  help  me  out !" 

The  fire  faded  from  Bridget's  flaming 
countenance,  and  she  paused,  irresolute 
as  to  her  course. 


176  The  Gentle  Art 

"You  won't  desert  me,  Bridget,  I 
know!"  pleaded  Nannie  softly. 

"Sure  it's  not  Bridget  O'Flannigan 
will  desart  an  orphin  child ;  but  I  make  it 
distinct,  an'  ye  hear  me  now,  that  I'm  a 
respictable  woman,  not  given  to  takin' 
a  dhrop  too  much  or  too  little,  an' 
I  won't  stan'  an'  be  insulted,  an'  me 
twilve  years  over  from  ould  Oireland 
come  Saint  Patrick's  Day.  An'  even  if 
I  am  doin'  disrespictful  work  now,  milk- 
in'  an  ould  cow  in  which  the  divil  has 
taken  up  his  risidince,  I  want  yez  still  ter 
handle  me  character  wid  care." 

No  doubt  Sarah  Maria  was  awed  by 
this  address,  or  else  the  very  uncompli- 
mentary manner  in  which  she  herself  was 
alluded  to  startled  her  into  a  realization 
of  the  steep  down  which  she  was  rushing 
and  toward  what  pit  her  path  inclined. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  she  contentedly 
munched  the  second  pail  of  food  which 
Nannie  brought  her,  and  granted  the 
trembling  Bridget  peace  and  quiet  in 
which  to  extract  the  cream  and  invoke 
the  saints. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  177 


XII 


SOON  after  the  milking  ordeal  was  at 
an  end  Nannie  started  over  to  the  house 
of  her  cousins,  the  Misfits.  It  chanced 
that  she  happened  upon  this  ill-mated 
couple  in  the  nick  of  time. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Nan,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Misfit.  "I  have  a  day  off,  and  Mrs. 
Misfit  wants  to  take  the  boat  trip.  You 
must  go  with  us." 

"Yes,  we've  never  been,  and  I  told 
Henry  we  really  ought  to  go !  I  am  tired 
of  being  asked  if  I  don't  think  it's  pleas- 
ant, and  having  to  say  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  it." 

"You'll  have  to  fly  around  and  get 
ready,  then,  for  we  must  take  the  next 
train  in  if  we  want  to  catch  that  boat. 
You'll  go,"  he  added  as  his  wife  slipped 
away  to  dress,  "won't  you,  Nannie?" 


178  The  Gentle  Art 

Nannie  stood  regarding  him  with  one 
of  her  elfin  looks. 

"You  need  me,  don't  you?"  she  said. 

He  laughed  rather  awkwardly.  He 
always  felt  uncomfortable  when  Nannie 
looked  at  him  that  way. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course.  We  shall  be 
glad  of  your  company." 

"I  know  why  you  wanted  me  to-day," 
said  Nannie  later  on,  when  she  was  sit- 
ting out  on  the  deck  of  the  boat  with  him 
while  Mrs.  Misfit  was  taking  a  nap  in 
the  saloon. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  saw 
it  would  be  of  no  use  to  try  to  evade. 

"There's  'something  uncanny  about 
this  girl,"  he  said  to  himself. 

"You  wanted  me — you  and  Lillie  both 
wanted  me  to  stand  between  you.  You 
couldn't  endure  each  other's  company 
for  a  day.  It  would  bore  you  to  death." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  simply.  "It 
would  bore  me.  I  don't  know  about  Lil- 
lie." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Nannie, 
speaking  in  no  uncertain  tone.  "You 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  179 

are  just  •*$  uninteresting  to  her  as  she  is 
to  you." 

He  caught  his  breath. 

"You  are  complimentary,  I  must  say." 

"I  know  all  about  it.  It's  something 
like  this  with  Steve  and  me.  We  don't 
bore  each  other,  but  we  don't  know  what 
to  say." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

Nannie  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Evi- 
dently she  was  revolving  matters  men- 
tally. Finally  she  turned  to  her  compan- 
ion, and  with  a  roguish  smile,  which 
shone  like  a  sunbeam  out  from  over- 
hanging curls,  said: 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  'perk  up'  a  lit- 
tle." 

"I  don't  speak  Hindoostanee,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Well,  Steve's  above  me,  you  know." 

He  nodded,  but  Nannie  took  no  of- 
fense. He  was  thinking.  "That's  our 
trouble.  I'm  above  Lillie." 

"And  I  must  try  to  reach  him  some- 
how." 


180  The  Gentle  Art 

"If  Lillie  would  do  that "  he  be- 
gan, but  Nannie  cut  him  short. 

"It's  not  Lillie,  it's  you!  Lillie  is 
above  you !" 

Again  he  caught  his  breath,  this  time 
with  a  gasp,  but  he  was  forced  to  be 
silent.  It  would  be  a  strange  man  in- 
deed who  could  enter  into  an  argument 
to  prove  his  wife  inferior  to  himself.  He 
might  be  thoroughly  convinced  of  this? 
might  even  have  taken  it  for  granted  that 
others  realized  the  fact,  but  he  could 
hardly  have  the  face  to  bring  his  volumi- 
nous arguments  on  this  point  to  the  atten- 
tion of  an  outsider. 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking,"  said 
Nannie,  and  she  looked  uncanny  again. 
"I  can't  say  these  things  as  well  as  some 
people  could,  but  you  think  because  you 
know  books  you're  better  than  Lillie. 
The  books  can't  be  the  first  things,  be- 
cause there  must  always  be  men  before 
there  can  be  books;  and  there  must  al- 
ways be  some  real  things,  true  things,  be- 
fore there  can  be  men.  These  were  there 
first.  The  books  don't  make  them,  but 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  181 

just  refer  to  them,  and  the  people  that 
have  the  real  things  are  higher  than  the 
books.  That's  what  makes  Lillie  higher 
than  you." 

The  man  sat  thinking  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  he  tried  to  laugh. 

"Really,  Nannie,"  he  said,  "if  one  were 
ill  with  that  horrid  disease  called  Conceit, 
a  quiet  half  hour  with  you  on  the  deck  of 
a  boat  would  restore  him  to  health." 

Nannie  gazed  at  him  defiantly,  but  said 
nothing. 

"No,  I'll  tell  you,  little  one,  how  it  all 
came  about,"  he  said  rather  patronizing- 
ly. "Lillie  and  I  married  when  we  were 
boy  and  girl.  She  was  seventeen  and  I 
was  twenty.  Lillie  was  very  pretty  and 
that  attracted  me,  and  I — well,  I  don't 
know  just  what  she  saw  in  me !" 

"I've  often  wondered,"  said  Nannie. 

He  gave  one  look  of  blank  amazement 
and  then  dropped  his  hands  in  dismay. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  were  more  inter- 
esting then  than  you  are  now,"  Nannie 
went  on  comfortingly. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  said  humbly,  "but  we 


182  The  Gentle  Art 

neither  of  us  knew  the  other.  Our  tastes 
were  not  formed ;  our  characters  were  not 
matured.  I  grew  one  way,  she  grew 
another;  now  we  care  for  entirely  differ- 
ent things,  and  as  a  result  we  are  walking 
through  life  together  and  each  is  utterly 
alone." 

He  was  looking  off  over  the  big  lake 
now.  He  had  forgotten  the  annoyances 
and  unpleasant  surprises  of  their  conver- 
sation. He  no  longer  saw  Nannie.  A 
dreary  never-ending  waste  was  all  that 
held  his  mental  vision. 

Nannie's  voice  recalled  him. 

"That's  no  excuse,"  she  insisted. 

He  started  like  a  man  rudely  awakened. 

"Who  thought  of  making  excuses  ?"  he 
said  rather  gruffly. 

But  down  in  his  heart  lay  the  testi- 
mony that  convicted  him.  By  this  it  was 
proven  that  he  had  for  thirteen  years  been 
excusing  himself. 

"If  you  would  take  an  interest  you 
could  do  something  for  Lillie  and  she 
could  do  something  for  you." 

He  did  not  jest  this  away.     He  was 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  183 

taking  an  interest  now  and  doing  some 
humiliating  thinking,  and  as  a  result  of 
all  this  he  stood  before  himself  in  a  clear, 
new  light,  in  which  it  could  readily  be 
seen  that  he  was  less  in  need  of  sympathy 
than  of  pardon. 

On  her  way  home  that  afternoon  Nan- 
nie called  at  Mrs.  Earnest's  house,  and 
was  boisterously  welcomed  by  the  two  lit- 
tle ones  of  the  family,  Mamie  and  Jim. 

"A  story!    A  story!"  they  shouted. 

"Oh,  I  can't,"  said  Nannie.  "I  haven't 
any  in  my  head." 

"Yes,  you  must!  You  promised!" 
urged  Jim  in  an  extremely  moral  tone 
(he  himself  was  a  shocking  transgressor 
in  the  matter  of  promises).  "You  prom- 
ised! You  know  you  did!  You've  got 
to!" 

"Well,  what  shall  it  be  about?" 

"Indians!"  screamed  Jim,  "and  let 
them  do  a  lot  of  killing !" 

"No.  I  want  a  kitty  story,"  said 
Mamie. 

"I  won't  have  a  kitty  story — I  want  a 
bloody  Indian  story!"  said  Jim  stoutly. 


184  The  Gentle  Art 

"I  don't  know  any  bloody  Indian  story, 
and  I  wouldn't  tell  one  if  I  did,"  said 
Nannie  in  her  abrupt,  decisive  way. 

"I  won't  listen,  then,"  pouted  Jim. 

"Very  well.  You  may  go  to  Kam- 
chatka if  you  like.  Mamie  and  I  are  going 
to  have  a  kitty  story. 

Mamie  cuddled  up  to  Nannie,  while 
Master  Jim  stalked  out  of  the  room.  It 
was  observed,  however,  that  he  was  not 
above  taking  up  a  squatter's  claim  in  the 
hall  and  listening  through  the  crack  of 
the  door. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  Nannie  began  in 
the  old  way  so  fascinating  to  children — 
"once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  dear  lit- 
tle kitty." 

Just  at  this  point  the  front  door  opened 
and  Mr.  Earnest  walked  in.  Now,  Nan- 
nie had  never  fancied  this  gentleman, 
and  to-night,  as  she  noted  his  glowering 
look,  she  felt  a  savage  desire  to  annoy 
him. 

"Hello,  chick,"  he  said,  brusquely  in 
answer  to  little  Mamie's  greeting.  "Good- 
evening,  Nannie,"  he  added,  taking  out 
his  paper  and  seating  himself. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  185 

As  he  did  so  Mrs.  Earnest  came  into 
the  room.  She  always  seemed  ill  at  ease 
in  her  husband's  presence,  though  she 
strove  to  appear  the  contrary. 

"Why,  good-evening,  dear,"  she  be- 
gan. "Are  you  home?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  said  roughly.  "Can't 
you  see?" 

"I  thought  I  recognized  you,"  she  re- 
plied, forcing  a  little  laugh. 

He  made  no  reply. 

"Did  you  bring  the  sugar,  dear?"  she 
asked  presently. 

"No,  I  didn't." 

She  was  depending  on  this  for  pre- 
serving, and  she  wanted  to  ask  why  he 
failed,  but  did  not  quite  dare. 

"Can  you  bring  it  to-morrow?"  she 
inquired  after  an  awkward  pause. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  gruffly. 

Again  she  hesitated.  She  was  very 
gentle  and  naturally  timid,  and  his  treat- 
ment had  increased  the  latter  tendency. 
At  last  she  mustered  strength  to  say : 

"I  need  it  very  much." 

There  was  no  reply,  and  directly  she 
left  the  room. 


186  The  Gentle  Art 

Now,  not  one  iota  of  this  domestic 
scene  was  lost  upon  Nannie.  From  the 
day  she  had  listened  to  that  story  told  by 
Constance  Chance  to  her  young  friend 
(Mrs.  Earnest's  oldest  child)  she  had 
been  looking  about  her  sharply.  The  first 
direction  of  eyes  newly  opened  is  out- 
ward. We  see  our  neighbors — see  that 
instead  of  performing  their  part  like  men 
they  are  skulking  through  life — men  as 
churls,  snarling,  or  it  may  be  stalking, 
automaton  fashion;  men  as  sticks,  walk- 
ing, and  we  hasten  to  correct  their  errors. 
Our  own  correction  comes  afterward,  if 
at  all,  for  as  the  poet  has  told  us,  it  were 
easier  to  tell  twenty  what  were  good  to  be 
done  than  to  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  do  it. 

Nannie  fastened  her  eyes  upon  Mr. 
Earnest,  but  as  he  was  now  absorbed  in 
his  paper  he  lost  the  benefit  of  her  fierce 
glances. 

"Why  don't  you  tell?"  urged  Mamie, 
who  did  not  relish  this  interruption  to  her 
story. 

"Well,  once  there  lived  a  horrid  pig." 

"Why,  that's  not  it,"  said  the  child 
pettishly.  "It's  a  kitty." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  187 

"No,  it's  a  pig,"  reiterated  Nannie  with 
emphasis.  "A  horrid,  selfish  pig!" 

"I  don't  like  that,"  pouted  Mamie. 
"You  begin  about  a  kitty,  and  just  as 
I'm  getting  interested  in  her  you  go  off 
on  a  pig." 

"Well,  then,  once  there  was  a  big,  hor- 
rid cat." 

"You  said  a  dear  little  kitty,"  cried 
Mamie. 

"He  was  a  dear  little  kitty  once,  I  sup- 
pose, but  he  grew  up  to  be  a  big  selfish, 
glowering,  tortoise-shell  tomcat." 

"Was  there  any  mama  kitty?"  asked 
Mamie,  who  yearned  for  a  gentle  element 
in  the  story. 

"Yes,  and  she  was  lovely,  so  unselfish 
and  kind,  but  the  big,  ugly  one  bullied  her 
all  the  time  till  she  was  afraid  to  call 
her  soul  her  own." 

"Did  they  have  any  teeny  weeny  kit- 
ties?" asked  Mamie. 

"Yes,  three  of  them.  The  oldest  was 
very  sweet  and  the  next  was  rather  good 
sometimes,  but  showed  signs  of  being 
horrid  like  the  big  one  when  he  grew  up, 


188  The  Gentle  Art 

and  the  littlest  of  all  was  very  cunning 
and  good." 
•  "Did  they  have  a  little  house?" 

"Yes,  but  it  was  awfully  hard  to  keep 
it,  because  when  Mrs.  Kitty  wanted  any- 
thing she  was  afraid  to  ask  old  Mr.  Cat 
for  it,  and  when  he  forgot  things,  in- 
stead of  begging  her  pardon,  as  he  should 
•have  done,  he  would  glare  at  her  until 
she  was  afraid  of  her  life.  Oh,  he  was  an 
odious  old  thing!  He  thought  he  was 
very  big  and  handsome,  but  he  was  hor- 
rid-looking, and  everybody  hated  him 
and  he  made  everybody  wretched.  Well, 
one  day  Mrs.  Kitty  was  going  to  give  a 
birthday  party  for  the  weeniest  kitty. 
They  none  of  them  wanted  old  Mr.  Cat 
to  come,  because  nobody  could  have  a 
good  time  when  he  was  around,  but  they 
didn't  know  how  to  get  rid  of  him  with- 
out making  him  angry — he  was  always 
angry  at  somebody  or  something. 

"Now  the  family  who  owned  these  kit- 
ties had  some  rabbits,  and  lately  some- 
thing had  been  killing  the  rabbits,  and 
they  wanted  to  find  out  what  it  was,  so 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  189 

they  set  a  trap.  Well,  on  the  birthday 
Mrs.  Kitty  prepared  a  nice  little  dinner; 
she  had  some  new  milk,  and  a  little  meat 
and  a  bit  of  cheese,  and  six  little  mice. 
The  table  was  so  pretty,  and  everybody 
sat  down,  and  there  was  no  end  of  the  fun 
going  on,  until  suddenly  they  all  stopped 
talking  and  laughing,  for  they  saw  hate- 
ful Mr.  Cat.  He  came  sulking  and  glow- 
ering along,  as  if  somebody  outside  had 
whipped  him  and  he  wanted  to  take  it  out 
of  his  family.  Mrs.  Kitty  begged  him  to 
sit  down,  and  the  little  kitty  told  him  it 
was  her  birthday  party. 

"  'What  can  I  help  you  to  ?'  asked  Mrs. 
Kitty  in  her  pretty  voice,  trying  not  to 
look  frightened. 

"  'None  of  this  stuff,'  he  growled. 
'Haven't  you  anything  decent  to  eat?' 

"  'I'm  afraid  we  haven't  anything  but 
this,'  said  Mrs.  Kitty,  her  teeth  chatter- 
ing with  dread  for  fear  he'd  pounce  on 
the  table  and  break  the  dishes.  'Do  please 
take  something,'  she  begged. 

"But  he  only  made  a  great  hateful  ts-s ! 
and  turned  away  as  mad  as  he  could  be, 


190  The  Gentle  Art 

and  then  down  he  hopped  right  into  the 
rabbit  trap,  which  happened  to  be  near. 

"Out  came  one  of  the  boys  of  the  fam- 
ily, hallooing  and  shouting  to  the  others 
that  he  had  heard  the  trap  go  off  and 
knew  they'd  caught  the  thief,  and  the 
poor  little  kitties  ran  away  as  fast  as  their 
small  legs  would  carry  them,  not  stop- 
ping to  see  that  horrid  old  Mr.  Cat  was 
held  fast." 

"What  became  of  Mr.  Cat?"  asked 
Mamie. 

"He  came  to  a  bad  end,  as  all  such 
creatures  do,"  said  Nannie  in  a  terrible 
voice. 

At  this  point  Jim's  interest  outran  his 
pride,  and  he  swung  open  the  door  so 
that  he  could  hear  better. 

"What  became  of  him?"  persisted 
Mamie. 

"He  received  a  sound  trouncing,"  said 
Nannie. 

Just  at  this  juncture  of  affairs  she 
caught  sight  of  Mr.  Earnest's  eyes  peer- 
ing at  her  above  his  paper.  Had  they 
been  filled  with  tears  or  dark  with  re- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  191 

morse  she  might  have  relented,  but, 
shocking  to  relate,  they  were  fairly 
twinkling  with  merriment,  and  Nannie 
perceived  that  she  was  amusing  her  audi- 
tor hugely,  instead  of  reading  him  a  ter- 
rible lesson,  and  in  her  anger  she  all  but 
lost  control  of  herself. 

"Wasn't  anything  else  done  to  him?" 
asked  Jim  in  a  rather  disappointed  tone. 

"Yes,"  said  Nannie,  glaring  at  Mr. 
Earnest  in  a  fierce,  defiant  manner. 

"Oh,  that's  enough  to  do  to  him," 
pleaded  little  Mamie. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Jim.  "He  ate  up 
the  rabbits." 

"Maybe  he  didn't  eat  the  rabbits," 
urged  tender-hearted  Mamie. 

"No,  he  didn't  eat  the  rabbits.  A 
weasel  did  that,"  said  Nannie,  her  awful 
gaze  still  fixed  on  Mr.  Earnest's  laugh- 
ing eyes.  "But  he  had  been  ugly  to  his 
family,  and  that's  the  worst,  the  mean- 
est thing  a  man — a  cat  can  do,  and  Prov- 
idence caught  him  in  a  trap  to  punish 
him." 

"What  else  was  done  to  him?"  per- 
sisted Jim. 


192  The  Gentle  Art 

"He  was  hung,"  said  Nannie,  and  she 
almost  smacked  her  lips  with  savage 
relish. 

"Oh!"  said  Jim,  and  he  condescended 
to  enter  the  parlor  and  plant  himself  in 
front  of  Nannie.  "Then  what  else  was 
done  with  him?"  reiterated  this  young 
avenging  fury. 

"I  don't  like  this  story,"  said  Mamie. 

"I  do!"  said  Jim.  "It's  most  bester 
than  Indians." 

Nannie  was  going  to  say  that  was  all, 
but  just  then  she  caught  sight  of  those 
mocking  eyes  again,  and  in  a  sudden  fury 
she  added: 

"He  was  drawn  and  quartered." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Jim,  while  Mamie  be- 
gan to  weep. 

Just  then  a  roar  of  laughter  ensued 
from  behind  the  newspaper,  and  Nannie, 
whose  every  nerve  was  taut,  leaped  from 
her  chair. 

The  newspaper  fell,  and  the  two  chief 
actors  in  this  drama  confronted  one 
another,  one  of  them  convulsed  with 
laughter  and  the  other  with  flashing,  de- 
fiant eyes  and  tightly  pursed  mouth. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  193 

"And  after  that — "  urged  Jim.  "Go 
on,  Miss  Nannie.  Oh,  this  is  a  bully 
story !  It's  bestest  than  Indians !" 

"After  that,"  said  Nannie,  turning 
squarely  on  Mr.  Earnest,  "after  that  he 
was  sent  to  the  penitentiary  for  life,  and 
everybody  said  'Good  enough!'  'Served 
him  right,  nasty,  mean,  horrid  old 
thing !'  "  and  away  she  went,  slamming 
the  front  door  behind  her. 

The  bang  of  the  door,  and  still  more 
the  unusual  sound  of  Mr.  Earnest's 
laughter,  brought  the  little  wife  to  the 
spot. 

"We  had  a  bully  story!"  Master  Jim 
explained.  "There  wasn't  any  righting  in 
it,  but  a  big  old  cat  got  caught  in  a  trap, 
and  he  was  hung  and  quartered  up." 

"Jim!"  said  his  mother.  "Do  stop!  I 
don't  like  such  stories.  What  could  Nan- 
nie have  been  thinking  of?" 

If  she  had  dared  she  would  have 
added :  "I  don't  see  how  anybody  could 
have  laughed  over  that." 

But  perhaps  she  was  checked  by  a  look 
on  Mr  Earnest's  face.  He  was  not 


194  The  Gentle  Art 

laughing  now;  neither  was  he  scowling; 
he  looked  very  grave. 

"Jennie,"  he  said,  "come  here,  dear," 
and  with  a  quick,  unaccustomed  flutter  of 
her  heart  she  went  to  him.  "I've  been  a 
brute — a  cowardly  brute,  but  I'm  sorry, 
and  I  want  to  do  better.  Will  you  for- 
give me?  And  if  I  behave  like  a  man  in 
future  do  you  think  you  can  go  back  to 
the  old  love,  dear  ?" 

The  children  had  run  out  to  see  if  Nan- 
nie had  left  them,  and  the  room  was  very 
still;  no  sound  but  the  ticking  of  the 
clock,  and  once  in  awhile  a  deep  sob  that 
would  not  be  crushed  back. 

Great  events  turn  on  small  pivots  oft- 
times,  and  so  it  happened  that  there  were 
some  changes  in  that  little  house  after 
this. 

Curiously  enough,  not  long  after  Nan- 
nie's story  a  great  tortoise-shell  tomcat 
appeared  in  the  Earnest  home.  No  one 
thought  of  asking  Mrs.  Earnest  if  she 
had  brought  him  there,  and  the  others 
knew  nothing  about  him.  More  curious- 
ly still,  when  Mr.  Earnest  began  to  grow 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  195 

sulky  or  ugly,  Sir  Tortoise  Shell  would 
often  walk  into  the  room  and  glare  at 
him  with  his  big,  ugly  eyes. 

"Jennie,  I  believe  I'll  shoot  that  cat!" 
he  exclaimed  one  day.  "I  can't  bear 
him!" 

"Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  let  you  hurt  him, 
Gerald,"  said  Mrs.  Earnest,  who  had  be- 
come quite  a  spirited  little  woman  in  the 
new  and  happy  atmosphere  she  breathed 
now.  "I'm  so  fond  of  him." 

She  looked  demure  enough  as  she 
stooped  to  pet  the  cat,  but  really  her  eyes 
were  sparkling  with  mischief,  for  truth  to 
tell,  she  had  heard  Nannie's  story  and 
was  ready  to  adopt  a  big  yellow  cat  as  her 
coat  of  arms. 

Mr.  Earnest  strolled  out  on  to  the  gal- 
lery. He  too  was  thinking  of  that  story. 

"I  could  have  stood  the  trouncing,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "and  the  hanging,  and 
even  the  drawing  and  quartering;  but 
when  it  came  to  sending  all  four  quarters 
to  the  penitentiary  for  life,  what  could 
a  poor  devil  do  but  cave  in  ?" 


196  The  Gentle  Art 


XIII 


A  WEEK  had  passed  since  Steve  re- 
fused to  burden  himself  longer  with 
Sarah  Maria's  care  and  education.  As  a 
matter  of  course  he  saw  that  the  irasci- 
ble lady  was  still  retained  about  the  place, 
but  he  felt  that  to  be  no  concern  of  his 
so  long  as  their  orbits  did  not  cross, 
and  so  far  Sarah  Maria  seemed  to  appre- 
ciate his  indifference  and  to  thrive  upon 
it. 

A  change  of  base  was  effected,  how- 
ever, on  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day, 
and  it  came  about  in  this  wise.  On  go- 
ing down  to  his  little  corn-field  one  morn- 
ing to  see  how  matters  were  progressing, 
Steve  found — but  perhaps  we  should  first 
tell  how  he  had,  with  melancholy  eyes, 
seen  most  of  the  results  of  his  summer's 
hard  work  come  to  naught ;  one  vegetable 
after  another  had  gone  the  way  of  the 
flesh — not  a  legitimate  way,  as  it  should 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  197 

have  gone,  on  the  family  table,  but  by 
the  path  of  some  violence  that  had  cut  off 
its  usefulness  and  ended  its  life  prema- 
turely. 

The  corn  was  about  the  only  article 
that  had  escaped  such  wreckage;  it  really 
had  flourished  and  now  bade  fair  to  grace 
the  table  before  long.  Once  in  a  while, 
when  his  spirits  needed  propping,  Steve 
allowed  himself  the  comfort  of  gazing 
upon  the  vigorous  cornstalks,  with  their 
budding  tassels,  and  this  was  his  intent 
upon  this  particular  day.  Alas!  the 
sight  he  beheld  was  hardly  calculated  to 
raise  the  spiritual  thermometer,  so  to 
speak,  for  Sarah  Maria  was  contentedly 
munching  what  corn  she  had  not  already 
trampled  under  foot.  Now,  this  was 
more  than  even  Steve  could  endure,  and 
for  once  his  gentleness  and  quiet  gave 
way  to  something  resembling  a  wild 
storm. 

Breaking  a  stout  switch  from  a  tree, 
he  proceeded  to  use  it  with  such  energy 
that  Sarah  started  for  the  barn  at  a 
sprinting  gait.  She  did  not  mind  being 


198  The  Gentle  Art 

sent  home — that  she  expected  as  a  matter 
of  course ;  but  she  hotly  resented  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  was  done.  Reaching  the 
barn  and  finding  the  door  closed,  she  sud- 
denly turned  and  charged  Steve  with 
such  malice  and  vigor  that  she  was  upon 
him  before  he  had  time  to  think  of  escap- 
ing or  of  defending  himself.  With  one 
blow  she  knocked  him  down,  but  happily, 
instead  of  demolishing  him  at  once,  she 
stood  over  him  glaring  and  otherwise  tor- 
turing him  mentally  before  she  could  de- 
cide upon  the  best  method  by  which  to 
blot  him  out  of  existence. 

While  Steve  was  thus  being  rolled  as  a 
sweet  morsel  of  revenge  under  the  tongue 
of  the  vicious  Sarah,  Brownie  came  run- 
ning from  the  house.  Possibly  he  beheld 
his  master's  predicament  and  wished  to 
succor  him;  possibly  he  was  animated  by 
the  spirit  of  mischief  which  seemed  to 
possess  him  most  of  the  time.  However 
that  may  be,  he  collided  with  a  hive  of 
bees  as  he  ran  and  upset  it.  Then  swift 
as  a  flash  he  fled  to  a  large  tree  growing 
nearby  and  stood  upon  his.  little  hind 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  199 

feet  close  to  its  trunk,  in  such  a  manner 
that  he  was  completely  hidden  from  view. 

The  bees,  raging  out  of  their  house  and 
looking  about  them  for  the  enemy  who 
had  knocked  so  rudely  at  their  back  door 
as  to  overturn  the  entire  building,  beheld 
Sarah  Maria  standing  rampant  over  the 
prostrate  Steve.  The  latter  looked  meek 
enough,  but  the  former  was  evidently 
equal  to  anything  vicious.  Accepting  this 
circumstantial  evidence  without  investi- 
gation, the  bees  sallied  forth  in  a  body 
and  proceeded  to  punish  the  wicked  cow, 
and  in  about  one  minute  Mrs.  Maria  was 
dancing  a  fisher's  hornpipe  of  the  most 
extravagant  character.  With  tail  tilted 
at  a  disrespectful  angle,  she  careened  in 
such  fashion  as  to  bring  her  flying  heels 
close  to  Steve's  terrified  nose.  Mean- 
while he  lay  still,  watching  proceedings 
with  gentle  amazement. 

"Most  extraordinary  conduct,"  he  said. 

By-and-by,  thinking  the  time  ripe  for 
escape,  he  attempted  to  rise  and  slip 
away,  but  the  eagle  eye  of  the  festive 
bovine  caught  his  first  movement,  and  she 


200  The  Gentle  Art 

pounced  upon  him  so  viciously  that  noth- 
ing but  his  feigning  to  be  dead  saved  his 
life.  Just  at  this  junction  the  kitchen 
door  opened,  and  Bridget,  who  had  ob- 
served these  high  proceedings  from  the 
window,  put  out  her  head  and  screamed 
"Murther!"  on  hearing  which  Sarah 
dashed  toward  the  house,  but  was  back 
again  upon  Steve  before  he  had  a  chance 
to  rise. 

"Upset  another  hive,  me  dear!" 
screamed  Bridget.  "Sure  a  big  dose  of 
bees  will  be  good  fer  her." 

Sarah  Maria  again  galloped  toward 
the  kitchen,  and  Bridget  hastily  with- 
drew her  counsel. 

"Shure  it's  the  divil  himsilf  broke 
loose!"  shouted  Bridget  again,  opening 
the  door  a  crack.  "I'd  know  his  horns 
an'  tail  anywheres,  bad  cess  to  him! 
Howly  Mither!  how  shall  I  get  yez  into 
the  house  ?  It's  a  state  of  siege  I'm  in 
here,  or  I'd  be  out  a-dhraggin'  yez  insiJe. 
Don't  raise  yer  hid,  Mr.  Loveland — don't 
now,  me  dear,  as  ye  love  yer  life,  or  fust 
ye  know  she'll  go  a-bowlin'  of  it  'roun' 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  201 

that  yard  as  if  it  was  a  billiard  bawl. 
She's  got  no  more  heart  in  her  brist  than 
that.  Och !  bad  luck  ter  her !  Shure " 

But  again  Sarah  Maria  started  to  in- 
terview the  cook,  and  again  Bridget  had 
a  pressing  engagement  indoors. 

"Och!  what  shall  we  do  now?  Shure 
it's  quakin'  I  am  fer  fear  ivery  minute. 
I'll  see  your  gory  head  bouncin'  'roun'  the 
potaty  patch  an'  her  afther  it.  May  the 
saints  defind  yez  from  sich  a  horrible 
fate.  Och!  look  at  that,  now!"  she 
shrieked  as  Sarah  made  another  lurch  in 
Steve's  direction.  "Perlice!  perlice!"  she 
screamed,  so  loud  that  she  might  have 
been  heard  in  the  city.  "Shure  I  hope  I 
may  live  ter  see  that  ould  divil  hangin' 
ter  the  apple  tree  an'  the  crows  fasteing 
off  her  wicked  ould  body.  There,  now, 
come,  Mr.  Loveland — she's  off!  Och! 
good  luck  ter  thim  bees !  Git  up  now,  me 
darlint!  There,  rin!  rin  fer  yer  life! 
Och!  she's  comin'  agin!" 

But  Steve  reached  the  kitchen  door 
first,  and  Bridget  reached  forth  a  wel- 
coming hand  and  snatched  him  inside, 


202  The  Gentle  Art 

his  coat  being  rent  in  twain  by  the  vio- 
lence of  his  salvation. 

"Shure,  now,  that's  a  cow  fer  a  respict- 
able  middle-aged  woman  twilve  years 
over  from  Oireland  ter  sit  down  an'  milk 
when  she's  not  yit  ready  ter  die — is  it, 
now?  An'  a  respictable  family  ter  drink 
the  milk  of  an'  not  expect  ter  be  cuttin' 
up  shines  an'  capers  an'  all  sorts  of 
wicked  things  in  consequence — is  it,  I 
say?  Luck  at  that,  now!  Haven't  I  told 
yez  that  cow  hasn't  the  manners  ov  a 
leddy,  at  all,  at  all !" 

Mrs.  Maria  was  at  that  moment  clear- 
ing the  fence  and  dancing  down  the  road, 
pursued  by  a  hive  of  bees. 

"May  the  divil  claim  his  own  an'  sit 
her  up  next  ter  him  down  where  the  both 
ov  thim  belongs!"  was  Bridget's  pious 
wish  as  she  disappeared. 

Steve  had  hardly  more  than  had  time 
to  change  his  clothes,  which  fortunately 
had  received  all  the  damage  in  the  recent 
scrimmage,  when  he  saw  Nannie  hurry- 
ing down  the  road.  She  was  half  run- 
ning, half  walking,  and  her  face  was  so 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  203 

radiantly  happy  that  Steve  went  out  to 
learn  the  good  tidings  she  evidently  bore. 
So  eager  was  she  to  impart  her  news  that 
she  called  out  before  he  reached  her: 

"It's  happened!  It's  happened!  It's 
all  over !  and  it's  so  little — and  the  dearest 
—oh,  Steve " 

She  could  say  no  more,  for  her  words 
were  cut  short  just  here  and  her  excite- 
ment found  vent  in  a  happy  sob. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  Steve,  taking 
her  gently  by  the  arm  and  leading  her 
toward  the  house. 

But  Nannie  resisted : 

"No,  no,"  she  cried.  "I'm  going  right 
back.  I  only  came  home  for  you.  You 
must  go  right  over.  Randolph  is  wild. 
Oh,  it's  so  dear  and  sweet!  Just  like  a 
rose!  I  could  smother  it  with  kisses!" 

She  would  hardly  let  him  go  fop  his 
hat,  and  all  the  way  over  she  dragged  him 
along,  insisting  upon  greater  speed  and 
chattering  in  an  excited,  happy  way  that 
was  perfectly  new  and  perfectly  delight- 
ful to  Steve. 

Randolph    was    on    the    lookout    for 


204  The  Gentle  Art 

them,  and  his  excitement  was  no  less  than 
Nannie's. 

"You  must  see  the  pretty  little  baby, 
old  man,"  he  said  after  an  impetuous 
hand-shaking. 

"Why,  yes,  do  let  me  see  it." 

"Don't  say  it,"  exclaimed  Nannie.  "It's 
a  little  girl." 

"Well,  my  dear — really — you  forgot 
to  mention  which  it  was." 

Just  then  Randolph  entered  with  a 
bundle  of  shawls,  which  he  reverently 
and  delightedly  opened. 

All  at  once  his  face  changed  and  a  look 
of  blank  dismay  effaced  his  happy,  ex- 
pectant expression. 

"W — why,  where  is  she?"  he  stam- 
mered. 

"Randolph  Chance!"  blazed  Nannie, 
snatghing  the  bundle  from  him,  "I  could 
slap  you !  You've  got  her  upside  down !" 

"Oh!"  groaned  Randolph.  "Will  it 
kill  her?" 

"It  may!"  said  Nannie  fiercely. 
"You've  no  business  with  her!  Holding 
her  heels  up!  Poor  little  thing." 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  205 

And  she  laid  her  face  on  the  tiny 
human  doll  and  cooed  to  it,  and  soothed 
it,  while  the  father  stood  there — big, 
helpless,  remorseful,  solicitous,  and  ten- 
der. 

"Let  me  take  her,"  said  Steve  quietly, 
holding  out  his  hands. 

Nannie's  first  impulse  was  to  say  "No" 
and  to  press  the  baby  closer  to  her,  but 
something  in  Steve's  face  arrested  the 
word  she  would  have  spoken,  and  she 
placed  the  precious  little  charge  in  his 
arms. 

"I  declare,  old  man,  one  would  think 
you  had  had  a  dozen  at  least !"  said  Ran- 
dolph, looking  on  admiringly. 

"It's  the  first  very  young  child  I  ever 
held,"  said  Steve. 

Nannie  was  still.  She  and  Randolph 
were  looking  at  Steve,  and  Steve  was 
looking  into  the  little  face  that  lay  upon 
his  arm.  For  a  moment  no  one  spoke; 
then  Nannie  said  abruptly: 

"I  want  to  see  Constance." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  let  you,  Nannie," 
said  Randolph.  "She  doesn't  seem  quite 
as  well  as  she  did  awhile  ago." 


206  The  Gentle  Art 

"Then  I  must  see  her,"  said  Nannie 
emphatically. 

"Why,  my  dear,"  Steve  began  gently, 
"perhaps  to-morrow " 

"No,  I  must  see  her  now.  I've  some- 
thing to  tell  her.  It  will  make  her  well. 
I  must  see  her." 

She  was  so  determined  that  Randolph 
reluctantly  consented,  and  she  passed 
into  Constance's  room,  leaving  the  baby 
with  Steve. 

"Constance,"  said  Nannie,  stepping  up 
to  the  bedside,  "you  are  going  to  get  well, 
aren't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Constance. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  you  must.  I  think 
it  would  be  wicked  to  leave  the  little  baby 
in  the  world  without  a  mother.  No  one 
would  ever  love  her  and  no  one  would 
teach  her  to  do  things  and  how  to  be 
good,  and  she  would  be  so  lonely,  and  she 
wouldn't  know  how  to  come  near  people 
and  say  anvthing,  no  matter  if  her  heart ; 
was  bursting." 

And  Nannie  sank  by  the  bed  and  wept 
as  a  woman  does  sometimes  when  her 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  20? 

sobs  break  their  way  out  and  she  can't 
stop  them. 

A  flood  seemed  to  pour  upon  Con- 
stance, and  in  it  she  saw  the  lonely, 
yearning,  ignorant  child-wife  as  she 
really  was.  She  also  saw  how  unjust  she 
herself  had  been,  and  pity  and  remorse 
laid  hold  upon  her. 

"Nannie!  dear  Nannie — you  poor  lit- 
tle thing!  Come  here.  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I  love  you.  I  never  knew  you 
before  and  Steve  loves  you  if  only  you 
would  let  him." 

But  Nannie  was  on  her  feet  again. 
Her  words  had  been  spoken,  and  all  the 
crudity  that  had  been  swept  aside  for  a 
moment  returned  in  full  force  and  awk- 
wardness. Without  even  a  glance  at  Con- 
stance she  abruptly  left  the  room,  and  in  a 
few  moments  she  and  Steve  were  walking 
homeward. 


208  The  Gentle  Art 


XIV 


SARAH  MARIA  was  gone  and  baby 
Chance  was  thriving.  There  was  bliss 
enough  for  any  reasonable  man,  and 
Steve  waxed  almost  light  of  heart.  All 
this  had  come  about  with  time,  and  other 
things  might  come,  too,  if  time  were  not 
interfered  with.  The  news  of  Sarah's 
rapid  transit  had  hardly  cost  Nannie  the 
lifting  of  an  eyebrow.  She  was  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  baby  that  she  could  well 
afford  to  spare  her  amiable  bovine. 

Although  it  was  quite  late  in  the  fall, 
Steve  was  actually  contemplating  the 
planting  of  another  crop.  Now  that  the 
main  enemy  had  withdrawn  her  horns 
and  heels  from  the  garden,  winter  seemed 
a  mere  bagatelle  in  the  way  of  opposition 
— an  obstacle  too  small  for  reckoning. 

But,  as  poets  and  prose  writers  have 
abundantly  proven,  111  Fortune  has  an 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  209 

ugly  habit  of  coming  around  a  corner 
with  a  sudden  demoniac  swish  when  least 
expected  and  she  certainly  did  this  time. 
Steve  was  out  in  his  garden  drinking  in 
the  mellow  stillness  of  an  Indian  summer 
twilight,  and  feeling  not  really  happy  per- 
haps— a  man  who  has  a  home  only  in 
name  can  hardly  be  that — but  rested  and 
at  peace  at  that  particular  moment,  which 
is  much  more  than  could  be  asserted  of 
his  condition  the  next,  for  as  he  looked 
down  the  road  he  beheld  Sarah  Maria 
gamboling  along,  having  in  tow  at  the 
end  of  a  rope  a  well-spent,  perspiring 
darky. 

"Dis  yere  yo'  cow,  massa?"  asked  the 
weary  African  as  he  came  up. 

Steve  hesitated ;  he  was  sorely  tempted 
to  repudiate  madam. 

"Ain't  yo's  Massa  Lubland?" 

Steve  nodded  in  a  gloomy  manner. 

"Den  I  reckon  dis  yere  b'longs  to  yo'," 
he  said  confidently,  and  he  tugged  and 
pulled  the  unruly  beast  within  the  bound- 
ary of  the  cow-yard,  with  no  further  dam- 
age to  the  place  than  the  trampling  of 


210  The  Gentle  Art 

several  choice  plants  and  the  breaking  of 
a  young  apple  tree. 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you?"  asked 
Steve  in  a  tone  of  subdued  melancholy. 

"Now,  massa,  I's  gwine  tell  yo'  my 
story,  an'  den  I  lebes  it  to  yo'  to  do  de 
right  ting  by  me.  Yo'  see,  dis  yere  cow 
come  to  me  jes'  'bout  tree  months  ago, 
an'  my  wife  she  'lowed  it  was  a  giff,  but 
I  sez,  'No,  sah,  no  giffs  come  a-droppin' 
out  de  sky  dat  a-way.  Dis  yere  b'longs 
to  some  ob  de  quality  folk,  an'  dey's 
a-gwine  to  want  her  some  day,  so  we 
mus'  keep  her  up  right  smart,  an'  dey'll 
pay  us  fer  all  our  trubble.'  So  we  fed  her 
ob  de  fat  ob  de  Ian',  but  'peared  like  she 
were  de  kin'  dat  keeps  lean  anyways; 
dat's  why  she  look  so  kin'  o'  pulin'  now. 

"She  was  so  contrairy  to  manage  dat 
I  got  kin'  o'  skeered  ob  her,  an'  one  day 
she  tuk  me  in  de  pit  ob  de  stomach  an' 
h'isted  me  ober  de  fence,  an'  I  hed  mis'ry 
in  de  stomach  an'  mis'ry  in  de  back,  an' 
my  wife  'lowed  I  was  gwine  ter  die.  'It 
tuk  de  doctor  an'  a  powerful  lot  o'  medi- 
cine ter  sot  me  up  agin,  an'  I  was  kin'  o' 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  211 

porely  fer  a  long  time.  Bimeby  we  heerd 
de  cow  b'longed  ter  Massa  Lubland,  an' 
yo'  libed  out  heah,  an'  jes'  den  a  neighbor 
come  'long  wid  a  load  o'  furn'ture  an'  I 
ax  him : 

"'Could  yo'  take  de  cow?' 

"  'Ef  she'll  hitch  on  I  could,'  he  say. 
'Is  she  peaceable  or  is  she  ornery  ?' 

"  'She's  ornery  heah,'  I  say,  'but  she's 
gwine  ter  wawk  'long  lak  a  lady  when 
she's  gwine  home,  'case  she's  homesick.' 

"Well,  massa,  he  done  tuk  her,  but 
when  he  come  back  from  de  city  he  tole 
me  she  jes'  sot  herself  agin  goin',  an'  she 
sot  so  hard  de  bosses  couldn't  pull  nohow, 
an'  when  he  got  down  to  loose  her  she 
rared  till  she  fetched  some  o'  de  furn'ture 
down  on  her  haid,  an'  dar  was  a  nice  table 
broke  ter  kindlin'  wood,  an'  I  bed  ter  pay 
him  five  dollars  fer  it.  An'  jes'  as  I  put 
de  pocket  boojc  up  agin — an'  it  was  plum* 
empty — roun'  de  corner  come  de  cow, 
wid  her  eyes  on  fire,  an'  she  jes'  strewed 
us  bofe  ober  de  groun'  like  we  was  dead 
chickens  afore  she  runned  inter  de  shed. 
An'  massa,  sho's  yo's  bawn,  she  hooked 


The  Gentle  Art 


an'  tossed  me  like  a  rubber  bawl  all  de 
way  up  heah,  till  I  hain't  got  a  whole  bone 
any  whares  in  my  body.  Lordy  !  but  she's 
a  tumble  critter!" 

"Do  I  owe  you  ten  dollars?"  asked 
Steve  with  grim  resignation. 

"I  takes  whatever  yo'  gives,  massa,  an' 
I  doan  complain;  but  I  knows  yo's  hon- 
'rable,  an'  yo's  gwine  ter  'member  I  was 
laid  up  from  work  a  week  an'  hed  ter 
pay  de  doctor  an'  de  med'cines,  an'  I's  fed 
her  plum'  full  fer  tree  months." 

"Do  I  owe  you  fifteen  dollars?"  asked 
Steve. 

The  darky  looked  mournful. 

"Do  I  owe  you  twenty?"  asked  Steve 
in  a  somewhat  severe  tone. 

"Reckon  yo'  hain't  gwine  ter  fergit  I 
paid  five  fer  de  table,"  murmured  this 
meek  son  of  Africa. 

"Take  twenty-five,  then,  and  make  an 
end  of  it,"  said  Steve. 

"Tank  yo',  tank  yo',  massa.  I  hain't 
nebber  gwine  ter  fergit  yo'  ner  de  cow. 
Gawd  bress  yo'  bofe,  massa." 

And  grinning  and  bowing  he  disap- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  213 

peared,  leaving  Steve  minus  a  fifth  of  his 
monthly  salary  and  plus  the  beautiful 
Sarah  Maria. 

It  was  part  of  the  procession  of  events 
that  the  butcher  should  heave  in  sight  at 
that  moment,  and  that  Steve  should  hail 
him  and  take  him  in  to  look  at  the  re- 
turned prodigal. 

"She's  so  lean  she  wouldn't  be  good  for 
much,"  said  the  man.  "If  you'd  fatten 
her  up  I'd " 

"No,  I  think  not.  I'd  rather  you'd 
take  her  now." 

"I  couldn't  give  you  but  ten  dollars  for 
her  this  way." 

"Take  her,"  said  Steve. 

And  the  bargain  was  concluded.  Short- 
ly after  this  Bridget  was  ill  with  cramps 
for  a  few  days. 

"What  has  upset  you?"  asked  Nannie. 

"I  couldn't  tell  at  fust,"  groaned  Brid- 
get, "but  I  mind  now — it's  thet  Sarah 
Meriah." 

"Why,  she's  gone !  What  can  she  have 
to  do  with  you  now?" 

"Shure  she  was  in  that  last  beefsteak 


214  The  Gentle  Art 

I  ate.  I  recognized  her  the  minnit  she 
passed  me  lips.  'Are  ye  back  agin?'  sez 
I,  'bad  cess  ter  yez !'  'Thrue  fer  yez,'  sez 
she,  '  an'  I'll  be  ther  upsettin'  of  yez  yit.' 
An'  faith  she  is,  fer  it's  feel  her  I  do  this 
blissed  minnit,  hookin'  me  in'ards  an' 
kickin'  me  vitals,  an'  behavin'  in  a  most 
disgraceful  and  unleddylike  fashion 
throughout." 

Possibly  Nannie  found  herself  more 
at  leisure,  now  her  bovine  charge  was  off 
her  hands,  and  wanted  occupation,  or — 
and  this  is  more  likely — the  beauty  and 
comfort  of  Randolph's  and  Constance's 
home  had  stolen  to  her  heart  and  stirred 
new  impulses  there.  Other  influences  had 
been  at  work  on  this  neglected  region  as 
well,  but  to  these  Nannie  did  not  as  yet 
yield  their  meed  of  credit.  It  is  a  sad 
but  well-known  fact  that  the  home  agen- 
cies for  regeneration  are  the  last  to  re- 
ceive recognition  and  gratitude.  So  it 
was  that  while  Nannie  was  dimly  con- 
scious that  she  owed  something  to  Con- 
stance's womanliness,  she  refused  to 
dwell  upon  the  beauty  and  tenderness  of 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  215 

Steve's  conduct  toward  her.  His  uni- 
form courtesy,  gentleness,  and  forbear- 
ance, though  the  most  powerful  factors 
in  her  dissatisfaction  with  self  and  em- 
bryonic yearnings  toward  a  more  con- 
scientious, nobler  life,  were  as  yet  utterly 
ignored  by  her  in  actual  thought,  and  had 
her  attention  bee'n  called  to  them,  she> 
would  probably  have  denied  that  she 
owed  aught  of  good  to  their  influence. 
This  was  discouraging,  to  be  sure,  but 
one  must  wait  long  and  patiently  for  full 
results.  It  was  enough,  perhaps,  for  the 
present  that  Nannie  went  about  her  home 
trying,  in  a  blundering  way,  to  bring  to 
pass  some  changes  for  the  better.  With 
a  deeper  insight  than  she  recognized  she 
looked  to  her  table,  first  of  all.  Bridget 
was  not  a  first-class  cook,  and  her  limited 
repertory  rendered  the  bill  of  fare  weari- 
some and  monotonous. 

Several  dishes  that  Nannie  had  seen  on 
Constance's  table  had  caught  her  eye. 
A  tempting  salad  was  one,  and  having 
learned  how  to  make  it,  she  gave  her  own 
table  the  benefit  of  this  knowledge  one 
eveniner. 


216  The  Gentle  Art 

Steve's  face  lighted  with  surprise  and 
pleasure  the  moment  the  new  and  very 
attractive  dish  was  brought  on.  He  knew 
it  was  none  of  Bridget's  making. 

"This  must  be  yours,  my  dear,"  he  said 
with  a  gentle,  winning  smile. 

Now,  poor  Nannie  was  terribly  awk- 
ward about  anything  that  involved  a 
show  of  feeling,  so  instead  of  taking  this 
as  she  should  have  done,  she  merely  said 
brusquely : 

"I  made  it." 

Then  she  colored  violently,  then  imme- 
diately looked  defiant. 

But  her  color  and  her  defiance  were 
both  of  them  so  pretty  and  engaging  that 
Steve  was  moved  by  a  rare  impulse  to  go 
round  to  her  and  kiss  her. 

Shocking  as  it  may  seem,  Nannie 
caught  him  by  the  nose  with  a  sudden 
fierce  motion  and  held  on  with  grim,  un- 
relenting grasp. 

The  whole  scene  occurred  in  a  flash, 
as  it  were,  and  Steve  was  utterly  unpre- 
pared for  his  own  act,  and  still  more  so 
for  its  consequence.  Impulsiveness  with 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  217 

him,  however,  was  unusual  and  short- 
lived, and  even  under  these  untoward 
circumstances  he  soon  recovered  his  gen- 
tle gravity. 

"When  are  you  going  to  release  my 
nose,  Nannie  ?"  he  said  in  his  accustomed 
quiet  tone. 

"Goodness  knows!"  she  replied 
brusquely — possibly  without  intent  to  pun 
— but  she  let  go. 

Steve  retreated  a  step  or  two  and 
seemed  undecided  as  to  what  course  to 
pursue.  A  certain  air  of  dignity  and  re- 
serve enveloped  him  at  all  times,  and  up 
to  the  present  moment  this  had  never 
failed  to  be  respected  by  those  with 
whom  he  had  come  in  contact.  It  was 
hardly  possible,  then,  to  pass  by  so  fla- 
grant an  outrage  as  this  in  silence. 

"I  hardly  think,"  he  said  gently,  "you 
mean  all  the  things  you  do." 

"I  mean  every  one!"  snapped  Nannie, 
whose  resentment  was  stirred,  all  the 
more  so  because  she  was  ashamed  of  her- 
self. 

"If  that  is  the  case,"  Steve  replied,  and 


218  The  Gentle  Art 

as  he  spoke,  quietly  and  without  anger, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  dull  dread  of  her 
reply — "if  that  is  the  case,  it  can't  be  that 
you  feel  either  love  or  respect  for  me." 

"I  guess  I  don't,  then,"  said  Nannie 
rudely,  and  she  rose  from  the  table  and 
went  out  into  the  garden. 

Steve  stood  irresolute  for  a  time;  then 
he  took  his  hat  and  left  the  house.  Never 
in  all  his  life  before  had  he  felt  as  miser- 
able and  as  helpless.  At  that  moment  the 
beauty  died  not  only  out  of  his  own  life, 
but  out  of  nature  as  well.  There  was  no 
longer  a  balm  in  Gilead.  He  walked  on, 
instinctively  taking  one  of  his  old  paths, 
from  which  he  had  heretofore  received 
so  much  of  comfort  and  inspiration,  but 
which  to-night  gave  him  absolutely  noth- 
ing of  either.  It  would  seem  that  nature 
had  shared  the  blow  he  had  received  and 
had  been  deadened  by  it.  Poor  Mother  Na- 
ture, she  was  just  the  same,  but  her  child 
was  out  of  gear  and  she  could  do  nothing 
but  wait.  By-and-by  a  change  came,  not 
in  the  way  of  happiness,  perhaps,  but  in  a 
lightening  of  that  deadness  which  is  of 


Of  Cooking:  Wives.  219 

necessity  the  most  hopeless  of  all  condi- 
tions. 

Awaking  from  his  torpor  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  Steve  found  himself  engaged 
in  some  practical  thoughts.  He  had  late- 
ly been  balancing  his  books,  and  the  result 
was  not  encouraging.  He  was  now  re- 
viewing this  with  a  certain  grim  despond- 
ency and  also  a  certain  grim  humor. 

"We've  spent  eighteen  hundred  dollars 
in  one  year.  I  earn  fifteen  hundred  a 
year  and  there's  six  hundred  in  the  bank. 
We've  just  one  year  and  two  months  to 
live.  We'd  better  begin  to  repent,"  he, 
said  to  himself. 

Then  presently  he  began  to  wonder 
what  the  use  of  it  all  was.  He  had  given 
Nannie  shelter  and  protection — that  was 
all  there  was  to  it.  They  were  no  more 
to  each  other  than  strangers.  He  had 
done  his  utmost,  and  she  was  as  far  away 
from  him  as  ever;  that  made  an  end  of 
hope;  he  might  as  well  give  it  up.  At 
that  moment  there  was  nothing  he  would 
have  liked  better.  What  with  the  care 
and  perplexity  he  had  endured  over 


220  The  Gentle  Art 

women,  cows,  and  hens,  he  was  more  than 
ready  to  wash  his  hands  of  the  entire  lot. 

But  Steve  was  unaccustomed  to  follow- 
ing inclination  when  duty  pointed  in 
another  direction,  so  although  he  was  ap- 
parently doing  that  now,  yet  he  had  no 
other  thought  than  of  returning  to  his 
post  by-and-by. 

He  walked  on  in  an  aimless  sort  of 
fashion,  merely  because  he  did  not  know 
what  else  to  do  just  then,  and  soon  found 
himself  near  the  cottage  whose  glorified 
windows  attracted  him  on  his  tramp  some 
time  ago.  It  was  dull  enough  now,  for 
the  departing  sunlight  streamed  in 
another  direction,  leaving  the  little  house 
in  shadow.  Steve  would  have  passed  it 
without  a  thought  had  not  a  woman's 
cry  caught  his  ear — a  bitter,  wailing  cry, 
on  which  came  words  as  bitter : 

"Oh,  I'm  sick  of  it  all!  Would  God 
that  I  were  dead!" 

Without  meaning  to  intrude  on  private 
grief,  Steve  stood  stock-still.  There  was 
something  so  horrible  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween a  cry  of  such  lawless  despair 


Of  Cooking  Wives. 

and  the  idea  of  the  contentment  and  hap- 
piness for  which  that  little  house  should 
stand  that  it  fairly  paralyzed  the  man's 
steps,  just  as  the  motion  of  the  heart  is 
arrested  by  a  shock. 

The  cottage  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
woods.  Just  now  these  were  bare  and 
gaunt,  and  the  steep-sided  ravine  to  the 
left  seemed  to-day  a  barren  crack  in  a 
gloomy  landscape. 

It  was  all  of  it  unbearable,  unendur- 
able. Anything  was  better  than  this,  and 
Steve  turned  with  relief  in  the  direction 
of  a  familiar  train  whistle,  hurried  to  the 
station,  and  soon  was  speeding  toward  his 
former  bachelor  quarters. 

How  desolate  the  old  building  looked 
when  he  reached  it!  The  sun  had  sunk 
below  the  tall  chimney  tops,  and  the  nar- 
row street  lay  in  gloomy  shadow.  Noth- 
ing daunted,  however,  Steve  entered,  and 
forgetful  of  the  custom  of  the  building, 
he  stepped  to  the  elevator  shaft.  It  was 
dark,  but  looking  far  up  he  thought  he 
could  discern  a  faint  glimmer  of  the  sun- 
set. Some  lines  he  once  read  came  to 
him: 


222  The  Gentle  Art 

"The  emptying  tide  of  life  has  drained  the  iron  channel 

dry; 

Strange  winds  from  the  forgotten  day 
Draw  down,  and  dream,  and  sigh: 

They  were  passing  and  repassing  him — 
these  winds.  A  sigh,  a  certain  coolness, 
a  faint  whisper — that  was  all  as  they  en- 
tered the  shaft  and  sped  upward  like 
ghosts  of  a  busy  world. 

Steve  turned  and  ran  rapidly  up  the 
stairs.  He  could  hardly  fit  his  key,  he 
was  in  such  haste  to  escape  from  that 
lonesome  hallway.  Day  was  passing  out 
by  the  western  gate  when  he  entered  his 
room,  and  it  would  seem  that  heaven,  in 
all  its  untold  beauty,  had  come  forth  to 
greet  her.  Such  a  sky!  It  fairly  over- 
whelmed him,  and  he  turned  to  the  east, 
as  one  seeks  shelter  in  the  shadow  from 
a  too  brilliant  light.  Even  the  east  was 
whispering  the  story,  but  gently  and  in 
cadences  fit  for  weak  human  senses,  just 
as  winds  in  the  tall  tree-tops  faintly  re- 
peat the  harmonies  of  heaven. 

To  and  fro  Steve  walked  in  the  spa- 
cious lonesome  apartments.  Was  his  pres- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  223 

ent  solitude  an  earnest  of  his  future? 
Was  he  forever  to  be  denied  the  warm 
human  clasp  of  another's  hand  ?  Was  he 
doomed  evermore  to  see  the  oncoming 
of  the  night  from  out  some  deserted 
room? 

The  west  was  fading  now.  Day  had 
passed  and  carried  light  and  sunshine 
with  her.  The  clouds  were  moving  hither 
and  yonder  restlessly,  and  in  their  ghostly 
passage  they  took  on  weird  shapes. 

Steve  watched  them  with  a  strange  in- 
terest— an  interest  just  tinged  with  super- 
stition, half  rejecting,  half  receiving  their 
import,  something  as  one  watches  the 
shifting  of  cards  in  the  hands  of  a  wizard. 

He  looked  out  over  the  waters  of  the 
lake,  but  the  east  was  leaden  now;  her 
lips  were  sealed;  she  had  passed  silently 
into  the  night.  Even  in  the  west  there 
was  but  a  fitful  glowing,  and  the  clouds 
came  and  went. 

The  room  had  grown  black — insup- 
portable! Steve  could  not  endure  it — he 
must  light  it  in  some  way.  A  lamp  would 
not  do.  It  was  a  warm  evening,  wonder- 


224  The  Gentle  Art 

fully  warm  for  that  season,  but  he  must 
have  firelight. 

He  looked  about  him  and  soon  found 
kindling  and  fuel,  for  he  had  as  yet  dis- 
turbed none  of  the  room's  furnishings. 
His  lease  was  not  spent ;  he  could  use  the 
place  for  storage  for  quite  a  time  yet. 

The  warmth  of  the  cheery  flame  was 
welcome  to  him,  for  despite  the  heat  of 
the  evening  he  felt  a  chilliness  which  he 
did  not  know  meant  fever.  It  was  not 
among  possibilities  that  a  man  of  Steve's 
fine  sensitive  fiber  could  do  violence  to 
his  idea  of  right  without  disaster  to  his 
physical  being.  He  had  fled  from  his 
post  of  duty,  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  de- 
serter, and  this  deflection  was  necessarily 
accompanied  by  physical  disturbance. 

As  he  sat  beside  the  bright  blaze  he 
heard  Randolph  telling  of  his  successful 
wooing  and  saw  him  tilted  back  in  his 
chair  against  the  opposite  wall  of  the 
chimney.  Then  he  stepped  from  out  the 
ingle-nook  and  stood  in  a  little  old  ceme- 
tery. They  were  putting  mother  and 
Mary  into  the  same  grave,  and  he  thought 
the  gravediggers  cruel  because  they 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  225 

hurled  the  clods  of  earth  so  heavily  upon 
them. 

The  cemetery  was  growing  colder  now, 
and  he  wakened,  oppressed  with  the 
dreariness  of  it  all.  He  replenished  his 
failing  fire  and  then  sat  down  to  dream 
again,  but  this  time  he  was  not  alone,  for 
Nannie  sat  by  the  cheery  little  blaze — 
not  across  the  way,  but  close  by  his  side. 
She  had  all  her  brilliant  beauty,  all  her 
tantalizing,  bewitching  ways,  but  he  no 
longer  feared  to  touch  her;  no  longer 
feared  to  smooth  back  the  tangled  curls 
and  kiss  the  dear,  piquant  face,  for  the 
drawbridge  was  down,  the  gates  were 
flung  open,  and  Castle  Delight  was  his 
at  last. 

It  was  a  great  moment  for  Steve.  Now 
he  had  life  and  had  it  abundantly;  now 
he  had  wife  and  hearthstone. 

He  wakened  again  in  a  cold,  dark 
room,  and  he  saw  gleaming  through  the 
blackness  a  tearful,  wistful  face  which 
he  knew  was  Nannie's.  She  was  in 
trouble — she  wanted  something,  she  was 
calling  him  in  weird,  spirit  fashion,  and 
he  must  go! 


226  The  Gentle  Art 


XV 


WHEN  Nannie  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den she  saw  old  Hayseed  leaning  over  the 
fence  contemplating  some  of  the  ruins  of 
Steve's  vegetables.  Glad  of  any  diver- 
sion, she  opened  a  conversation  on  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Seymour,  of  whose  death 
she  had  heard  that  day.  In  far-away 
times,  old  Hayseed  had  known  Mr.  Sey- 
mour's father. 

"I  didn't  think  he  could  die,"  said  Nan- 
nie. "He  was  always  trying  to,  but  I 
didn't  think  he  was  really  sick  enough." 

"He  hed  ter  die  ter  vindercate  hisself," 
said  Hayseed.  "Some  folks,  yer  know, 
hez  ter  live  ter  set  'emselves  right,  but 
this  one  'bleeged  ter  die.  He  was 
allers  goin'  on  erbout  his  bein'  out  o' 
health,  an'  nobody  believed  him,  so  he 
was  'bleeged  ter  die.  Mrs.  Seymour's 
young  woman  was  tellin'  me  she  tho't 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  227 

he  died  to  spite  folks  that  wouldn't  'low 
he  was  sick.  She  said  he  was  mean 
enough  to  do  anything." 

"He  was;  mean  as  he  could  be!"  ex- 
claimed Nannie.  "He  was  so  little  and  so 
narrow-minded,  and  he  had  no  excuse 
for  it  either,  for  he  had  a  good  education 
and  he'd  been  all  over  the  world." 

"Well,  now,  once  in  awhile  ye  see  a 
prune  that  won't  swell.  Ye  put  'em  all 
in  water  alike,  an'  most  on  'em  gits  fat 
an'  smooth,  but  this  one  stays  small  an' 
shriveled  up.  There's  no  accountin'  fer 
ther  difference." 

Nannie  turned  and  walked  toward  the 
house.  She  was  restless  and  felt  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  herself. 
Since  her  caper  in  the  garden  Steve  had 
left  her  absolutely  to  her  own  way,  and 
she  had  found,  as  folks  will  soon  or  late, 
that  nothing  could  be  more  dreary.  She 
finally  started  over  to  see  her  cousins,  the 
Misfits,  but  on  her  way  thither  she  had  oc- 
casion to  pass  the  house  of  some  plain 
folk  by  the  name  of  Meader,  and  she  sud- 
denly decided  to  go  in  there.  It  was  the 


228  The  Gentle  Art 

same  house  from  which  Steve  had  heard 
that  anguished  wail,  and  when  Nannie 
entered,  shortly  after  Steve  had  passed 
on,  she  found  Mrs.  Meader  weeping  bit- 
terly. The  woman  was  so  far  gone  in 
misery  that  she  did  not  resent  Nannie's 
entrance  or  her  question. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  it  no  longer.  He 
don't  give  me  nothin'  to  git  anything 
with,  an'  we  can't  live  on  nothin'.  When- 
ever he  gits  mad  he  plagues  me  by  keepin' 
everything  out  o'  my  han's,  an'  he  won't 
answer  when  I  ask  him  fer  anything.  I'd 
like  to  know  if  a  woman  an'  five  children 
kin  live  without  money!  Before  I  was 
married  I  used  to  earn  some.  I  had 
enough  to  live  on,  but  now,  what  with  the 
cookin',  an'  washin'  an'  nussin'  all  these 
babies,  I  ain't  no  time  ter  earn  a  livin' !" 

"I  .should  say  you  were  earning  it! 
You  earn  more  than  he  does !"  exclaimed 
Nannie  hotly. 

"He  don't  look  at  it  that  way,"  sobbed 
the  woman.  "He's  ferever  makin'  me 
feel  so  beholten  ter  him  fer  every  penny 


Of  Cooking:  Wives.  229 

an'  ter-day  when  I  needed  some  money 
awful  fer  tea  an'  I  went  ter  his  pocket  an' 
got  it,  he  went  on  so  afore  ther  children 
it  seems  like  I  can't  never  look  them  in 
ther  face  agin.  He  said — he  said" — she 
stammered  amid  her  sobs — "thet  I  was  a 
thief — a  low-down  common  thief — that's 
what  he  said,  and  the  children  heard 
him." 

Nannie  rose  from  her  chair  with 
clinched  hands  and  a  flaming  face. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked  under  her 
breath. 

"He's  gone  ter  ther  grocery.  He  ain't 
working  ter-day.  He  said  he'd  'tend  ter 
the  spendin'  of  the  money.  I  couldn't  be 
trusted  with  it.  He  said  thet,  he  did, 
afore  the  children." 

And  she  broke  down  again. 

Just  then  the  man  himself  came  walk- 
ing in. 

"What's  up  now?"  he  asked  when  he 
saw  Nannie's  face. 

"You  are!"  she  blazed,  "and  you're  a 
contemptible  brute !" 

His    face    flushed.      He   looked   both 


230  The  Gentle  Art 

ashamed  and  angry,  but  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion is  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  when 
attacked  by  a  woman  outside  his  family. 
He  had  enough  pride  to  shrink  from  this 
invasion  of  his  affairs,  but  he  did  not 
know  just  how  to  resent  it. 

"It  ain't  no  matter  fer  discussion,"  he 
said,  "but  she's  been  into  my  pockets,  an' 
thet's  what  I  can't  stand." 

"What  do  you  steal  her  money  for, 
then?"  demanded  Nannie. 

He  stared  at  her  in  stupid  astonish- 
ment. 

"It's  you  who  steal!"  continued  Nan- 
nie in  ringing  tones.  "There  she  is,  earn- 
ing more  than  you  do,  and " 

"I  don't  know  how  you  make  that  out," 
said  the  man  in  a  sulky  tone. 

"Try  to  hire  some  one  to  take  her  place, 
and  you'll  learn.  She  could  hire  your 
work  done  fast  enough,  but  there  never 
has  been  and  there  never  will  be  money 
enough  in  all  your  horrid  pockets  put 
together  to  hire  what  she  does  for  you 
and  the  children;  and  then  you  are  so 
nasty,  and  mean,  and  dishonest  as  to 


Of  Cooking  Wives. 

clutch  the  money  and  pretend  you  have 
the  right  to  dole  out  what  belongs  to  her. 
I  wonder  you  aren't  ashamed  to  be  alive!" 

He  certainly  did  look  ashamed  now. 
He  had  probably  never  before  viewed 
matters  from  this  point. 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  I  done  just  the , 
right  thing.     I'm  not  going  ter  deny  it, 
but  money  comes  hard,  anyhow." 

"And  her  life  is  hard  enough,  anyhow, 
without  your  making  it  harder  by  tyran- 
nizing over  her." 

Here  one  of  the  five  little  ones  began  to 
cry,  and  the  mother  started  forward  to 
take  it,  but  Nannie  intercepted  her. 

"You  go  and  get  your  dinner,"  she 
said.  "I'll  look  after  the  children." 

And  taking  the  two  youngest  in  her 
arms  she  coaxed  the  others  along, 
and  they  all  went  out  into  the  warm, 
pleasant  sunlight,  and  there  Nannie  sang 
to  them,  told  them  stories,  washed  their 
dirty  little  faces,  and  mothered  them  gen- 
erally until  their  own  poor  mother  could 
recover  herself  and  their  father  had  time 
to  see  the  error  of  his  way  and  repent. 


232  The  Gentle  Art 

The  sun  was  setting  when  Nannie 
wended  her  way  homeward.  She  dread- 
ed to  see  Steve,  but  found  relief  in  the 
thought  that  he  would  probably  appear 
as  usual.  When  she  learned  that  he  had 
not  returned  she  felt  surprised,  but  de- 
cided not  to  wait  dinner,  and  so  ate  alone. 

She  spent  the  evening  at  her  cousin's 
house.  She  did  not  quite  dare  to  go  to 
Constance's,  for  she  instinctively  felt  that 
Constance  would  heartily  disapprove  of 
her  leaving  home  in  that  way  at  a  time 
when  her  husband  was  likely  to  be  alone. 

Returning,  she  found  the  house  dark. 
Steve  had  probably  retired,  and  she  re- 
membered she  had  given  Bridget  permis- 
sion to  go  to  the  city  for  the  night  to  look 
after  a  sick  cousin.  Something  impelled 
her  to  do  an  unusual  thing — open  Steve's 
door  a  crack  and  peep  in.  He  was  not 
there. 

The  shock  of  this  discovery  was  so 
great  that  for  a  moment  Nannie  was  al- 
most too  bewildered  to  know  what  she 
did,  and  was  half  frightened  when  she 
found  herself  at  the  front  door  calling 
"Steve!  Steve!" 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  233 

The  leaves  rustling  on  the  trees  in  the 
soft  night  wind  was  her  only  answer,  and 
she  closed  the  door  with  a  feeling  of  deso- 
late misery  new  to  her  experience. 

At  no  time  was  she  afraid.  The  fact 
of  her  being  alone  in  the  house  merely 
served  to  emphasize  her  realization  of  her 
loss,  for  she  had  no  doubt  that  Steve  had 
left  her.  There  was  no  resentment  in  her 
attitude  now;  she  felt  that  she  deserved 
her  fate.  None  the  less  she  also  felt  that 
she  could  not  endure  >t — could  not  live 
without  Steve.  And  yet  she  had  told  him 
that  very  day  that  she  had  neither  love 
nor  respect  for  him.  How  could  he  stay 
with  her  after  that? 

The  night  passed  somehow,  and  morn- 
ing found  Nannie  with  a  white  face,  save 
where  the  shadows  rested  'neath  her 
large  eyes. 

Bridget  had  not  yet  come  home,  and 
she  could  not  endure  to  stay  alone  any 
longer,  so  she  wrapped  a  little  parcel  and 
started  over  to  Constance's.  The  parcel 
was  one  of  a  set  of  articles  she  was  learn- 
ing to  make.  Some  weeks  before  this  she 


234  The  Gentle  Art 

had  appeared  at  Constance's  one  day,  and 
unrolling  a  large  bundle  she  carried,  had 
spread  upon  the  latter 's  bed  a  quantity 
of  tiny  clothing,  cut  and  made  in  most 
original  fashion. 

"Why,  Nannie!"  exclaimed  Constance, 
who  had  no  other  idea  than  that  they 
were  meant  for  little  baby  Chance.  "How 
lovely  of  you !  Thank  you  ever  so  much !" 

"They're  not  for  you,"  said  Nannie  in 
her  crude  way.  "They're  mine." 

The  chagrin  and  embarrassment  Con- 
stance might  have  felt  over  her  mistake 
was  swallowed  up  now  in  her  amazement 
and  delight. 

"Yours !    Oh,  Nannie,  I'm  so  glad." 

"I  haven't  any  use  for  them,"  said 
Nannie,  bluntly,  "but" — and  here  there 
was  a  hardly  perceptible  quiver  of  her 
lips — "I  just  wanted  them  around." 

"I  declare,  that's  really  pathetic,"  said 
Randolph  afterward  when  Constance  told 
him.  "Why  don't  you  teach  her,  sweet- 
heart— teach  her  to  make  the  pretty  little 
things?" 

And  Constance  did,  and  as  a  result  of 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  235 

all  the  ripping  and  cutting  over  Nannie 
had  made  some  exquisite  little  garments, 
two  of  which  she  presented  to  Constance, 
and  the  rest  kept  in  a  little  chiffonier  in 
her  room,  to  gaze  at  and  kiss  many  times 
a  day. 

Returning  from  her  sewing  lesson 
rather  earlier  than  usual,  for  she  longed 
and  dreaded  to  go  back  to  her  house,  she 
found  Steve  awaiting  her. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  little  parlor,  and 
his  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes  strange- 
ly bright. 

Nannie  stood  stock-still  on  the  thresh- 
old when  she  saw  him. 

"Steve,"  she  asked  at  length,  "have 
you  come  back  to  live  with  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  then  something  im- 
pelled him  to  hold  out  his  arms  to  her. 

She  hesitated,  wavered  for  a  moment 
like  some  beautiful  wild  bird  that  had 
strayed  from  the  forest;  then  she  ran  to 
him  in  headlong  fashion. 

"Steve!"  she  fairly  cried,  "I  can't 
make  the  words,  but  you  know!  you 
know!" 


236  The  Gentle  Art 

Steve  folded  her  in  his  arms  and — the 
dream  came  true.  In  the  rapture  of  that 
moment  he  knew  indeed — knew  that  this 
strange,  untutored  child  was  the  one 
woman  in  all  the  world  to  satisfy  him. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  237 


XVI 


TIME  has  run  on.  It  is  just  three  years 
from  the  morning  Steve  came  home.  He 
was  quite  ill  for  awhile  after  that,  and 
from  his  feverish  talk  Nannie  learned 
several  things.  In  his  convalescence  they 
became  acquainted,  and  Steve  felt  that  his 
wife's  handy,  pretty  nursing  was  the 
sweetest  experience  he  had  ever  known. 

Shortly  after  he  was  on  his  feet  again 
Nannie  returned  from  Constance's, 
whither  she  had  run  of  an  errand  one 
morning,  with  a  great  distress  working  on 
her  face. 

She  entered  the  study,  where  Steve 
sat  at  his  desk  writing,  and  tried  to  speak, 
but  words  failed  her,  and  she  sobbed  in- 
stead. 

Steve  went  to  her  quickly,  and  his 
gentle  face  and  manner  were  eloquent 
with  concern  and  sympathy. 


238  The  Gentle  Art 

"Why,  my  dear,  what  has  happened?" 

"It's  the  little  baby !  She's  been  so  ill 
all  night !  She  can't  live !" 

"Oh,  my  dear!  Oh,  that  is  too  sad!" 
and  Steve's  face  flushed  and  quivered. 

"You  must  come  right  back  with  me, 
Steve;  they  are  in  such  grief." 

They  went  in  without  pausing  to  ring 
and  tiptoed  their  way  to  Constance's 
room.  The  house  was  very  still. 

In  response  to  their  soft  tap  Randolph 
opened  the  door.  When  he  saw  Steve 
he  broke  into  a  great  sob  and  laid  his 
head  on  the  shoulder  of  the  dear  friend 
of  olden  days. 

"Oh,  is  she  gone  ?"  cried  Nannie,  enter- 
ing the  room. 

Constance  nodded  and  turned  away, 
but  Nannie  burst  into  uncontrollable  grief 
as  she  saw  the  little  white-faced  figure 
lying  in  the  crib. 

"I  never  want  a  child!"  cried  Nannie 
passionately.  "If  God  can  be  so  cruel  as 
to  take  her,  I  never  want  one !" 

It  was  Constance  who  was  forced  to 
comfort. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  239 

"Don't  say  that,  dear,"  she  urged  gen- 
tly. "I  don't  understand  why  we  couldn't 
keep  her,  but  I  know  that  God  is  good. 
And  we'd  rather  have  her  this  way  than 
never  to  have  held  our  own  little 
baby " 

But  here  she  broke  down  and  wept  con- 
vulsively over  the  tiny  crib. 

And  Steve  and  Nannie  wept  as  they 
went  homeward  together  hand  in  hand. 

There  is  another  baby  there  now — a 
jolly,  roystering  little  fellow,  just  one  year 
old  to-day,  on  his  mother's  birthday,  and  a 
very  precious  little  man  he  is ;  but  the  dear 
little  girl  who  just  alighted  in  their  arms 
long  enough  to  lay  hold  upon  their  heart- 
strings and  then  flew  away  with  the  other 
angels  is  not  forgotten. 

Randolph  stepped  over  to  Steve's  desk 
this  morning  to  ask  if  he  and  Nannie 
would  be  sure  to  come  in  the  evening  to 
celebrate  the  double  birthday. 

"If  it's  at  all  clear  we  will,  old  man, 
and  gladly,"  said  Steve,  "but  it  looks  to 
me  as  if  a  big  storm  were  brewing." 

"Well,   I  hope  you  can    come. 


240  The  Gentle  Art 

think  a  deal  of  these  anniversaries.  Each 
one  of  'em  marks  off  a  happy  year,  I  tell 
you,  old  man." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Steve  gently. 

"And  the  years  have  been  successful, 
too,"  continued  Randolph.  "On  the 
whole — to  speak  between  friends — I've 
managed  pretty  well,  I  think." 

"Pretty  well  with  one,"  said  Steve,  and 
there  was  a  slight  gleam  in  his  eye  as  he 
recalled  Randolph's  bachelor  boast  that  he 
could  manage  forty  women.  "Now  for 
the  thirty-nine." 

"Steve,"  said  Randolph,  "you're  a  good 
fellow,  but  you'll  have  to  let  up  on  that 
forty.  I  had  sense  enough,  after  all,  to 
marry  only  one  of  them,  and  occasionally 
I  have  my  doubts — looks  a  little  as  if  even 
that  one  managed  me.  Just  you  drop  the 
thirty-nine.  You're  using  the  poker  too 
freely." 

And  then  they  fell  to  talking  about  how 
warm  it  was  on  this  same  day  three  years 
ago. 

Steve  was  right,  for  that  afternoon  it 
began  to  snow  and  it  forgot  to  stop.  He 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  241 

had  hard  work  to  get  home  and  still 
harder  to  get  out  and  attend  to  the  little 
stock.  The  chickens,  he  found,  had  had 
the  sense  to  go  to  roost  before  time ;  both 
Brownie  and  the  cat  were  safe  indoor; 
they  could  look  out  for  themselves,  but 
the  gentle,  fawn-like  Jersey  (quite  a  dif- 
ferent animal  from  the  wild-eyed  beast  of 
three  years  agone)  had  expectations,  and 
she  must  needs  receive  especial  care. 

After  Steve  had  fed  her  and  seen  that 
she  was  comfortable  for  the  night,  he 
made  his  way  into  the  house  with  a  feel- 
ing that  only  a  very  happy  man  can  un- 
derstand. 

Nannie  was  busy  upstairs  and  called  to 
him  not  to  come  up,  as  she  had  a  sur- 
prise in  store.  He  was  to  stir  the  fire  and 
set  her  chair,  which  she  would  fill  directly, 
and  Steve  had  done  all  this  and  now  was 
walking  about  the  room,  which  was  bright 
and  pretty  in  the  firelight,  handling  the 
books  and  magazines,  trying  a  chord  or 
two  on  the  piano,  and  looking  occasion- 
ally from  the  windows  out  into  the  night. 

That    was  wild    enough,    what    with 


242  The  Gentle  Art 

wind,  and  ice,  and  snow.  Every  now  and 
then  the  little  house  shuddered  in  the 
blast,  which  was  shrieking  in  the  chim- 
neys. The  window  glass  was  bearded 
with  snow,  which  melted  here  and  there 
and  ran  for  a  little  space;  then,  lest  one 
should  fancy  the  weather  were  shedding 
repentant  tears,  it  stiffened  into  ice 
straightway.  Down  at  the  foot  of  the 
bluff  the  lake  was  booming;  there  was 
something  to  make  the  blood  run  cold 
about  its  mighty  passion.  One  thought 
of  the  boats  at  its  mercy  that  night  and 
whispered,  God  help  them ! 

There,  in  the  center  of  it  all,  'neath  the 
trees  that  were  clashing  arms  with  one 
another  in  the  storm,  stood  the  snug  little 
home,  with  the  study,  over  whose  pictured 
walls  the  cheery,  flickering  light  played 
at  glow  and  shadow.  And  there,  close  to 
the  merry  blaze,  poker  in  hand,  sat  Steve, 
as  happy,  as  well  content  a  man  as  you'd 
find,  though  you  looked  far  and  wide. 
Brownie  occupied  the  other  chair,  and  it 
appeared  that  he  had  much  to  say.  Nan- 
nie was  singing — singing  to  the  baby  up- 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  243 

stairs — and  Steve  and  Brownie  hearkened 
to  the  pretty  notes. 

"You  hear  that,  sir?"  asked  Brownie, 
with  his  head  slightly  tilted  and  cocked  on 
one  side. 

Steve  poked  assent  at  the  fire. 

"You  didn't  think  much  of  her  at  one 
time,  did  you?" 

Steve  was  gravely  shocked  and 
promptly  poked  remonstrance  into  the 
glowing  coals. 

"Well,  you  were  rather  discouraged 
about  her — you  know  that,"  persisted 
Brownie. 

Steve  looked  ashamed,  but  he  was  hon- 
est enough  to  nod  slightly. 

"And  now  you  see  there  isn't  a  less 
wearisome,  a  nicer,  brighter " 

Here  Steve  interrupted  by  stabbing  the 
fire's  front  in  a  manner  betokening  the 
heartiest  concurrence. 

Just  at  this  point  the  subject  of  these 
thrusts  entered  the  room. 

"No,  you  don't,  Steve — no,  sir.  You 
shan't  even  have  a  squint  till  I  get  to  the 
fire." 


244  The  Gentle  Art 

And  carefully  covering  Miss  Baby 
from  view,  Nannie  sidled  along  to  her 
chair. 

"Now !  Ask  daddy  what  he  thinks  of 
Miss  Loveland!"  she  exclaimed,  drop- 
ping all  disguises  suddenly  and  holding 
the  pretty  little  creature  up  in  the  fire- 
light 

"Oh,  Nannie!  short  clothes!"  said 
Steve  with  an  admiring  gasp. 

"Yes,"  said  Nannie.  "Look  at  the 
darling  little  shoes!  See  her  kick  them! 
Oh,  she's  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  those  long 
dresses." 

Steve's  poker  was  greatly  agitated. 

"Nannie,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet  way,  "I 
hardly  think  I  can  wait  much  longer." 

"Then  you  shall  have  her.  Now! 
Here  she  goes,  daddy!"  and  Nannie 
tossed  the  baby,  all  laughter  and  dimples, 
into  the  delighted  father's  arms. 

True  to  her  sex,  she  proceeded  to  grasp 
all  he  had — the  poker.  Steve  held  on  for 
safety,  but  Miss  Baby  wielded  it,  and 
straightway  the  fire  sent  forth  a  shower  of 
sparks  that  went  frolicking  up  the  chim- 
ney in  pure  glee. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  245 

"Steve,"  said  Nannie,  pointing  to  them, 
"look!  See  how  prone  to  sin  you  are." 

But  Steve  had  no  time  for  his  derelic- 
tions ;  he  was  busy  studying  the  wonder- 
ful baby. 

"Nannie,"  he  said,  "this  marks  an 
epoch;  and  it's  Constance's  birthday." 

"It's  your  birthday,  too,  you  dear  old 
stupid !"  laughed  Nannie. 

"Why,  so  it  is.  I  never  realized  be- 
fore that  we  were  twins." 

"He  never  realizes  anything  about  him- 
self, does  he,  baby?" 

The  baby  gave  a  great  assenting  dab 
at  the  fire,  necessitating  a  prompt  exam- 
ination of  all  her  gear  to  see  if  she  had 
caught  anywhere. 

"He's  always  thinking  of  other  people 
and  forgetting  himself,  isn't  he,  baby?" 

Another  dab  still  bigger  and  another 
overlooking. 

"Oh,  my  dear !"  stammered  Steve. 

"Just  you  hush,"  said  Nannie  imperi- 
ously. "And  he's  too  foolish  and  for- 
getful of  himself  to  dream  that  there's 
a  birthday  dinner  almost  ready  in  the 


246  The  Gentle  Art 

dining-room  and  some  be-au-ti-ful  things 
under  somebody's  plate." 

Here  Steve  was  helplessly  and  hope- 
lessly embarrassed,  but  Nannie  snatched 
the  baby  and  went  on : 

"And  he's  a  regular  stupid  old  know- 
nothing,  isn't  he,  baby?" 

And  she  made  the  baby  give  the  poker 
such  a  thrust  of  sympathy  that  it  stuck 
fast  in  the  fire. 

"Whew!"  she  exclaimed,  jerking  it 
out.  "How  hot  that  fire  is!  I'm  fairly 
cooked !" 

There  was  a  peculiar  expression  on 
Steve's  face,  and  all  at  once  Nannie  re- 
membered a  newspaper  clipping  that  had 
dropped  from  one  of  his  note-books  that 
day  when  she  cleared  his  desk.  A  sud- 
den thought  struck  her  and  caused  her 
to  pause  with  the  poker  in  mid  air. 

"Have  you  been  cooking  me,  sir?"  she 
asked  in  awful  tones,  taking  her  seat  as  a 
judge  might  take  his  bench. 

Steve's  color  started  and  a  strange 
smile  dawned  upon  his  face.  His  very 
looks  convicted  him. 


Of  Cooking  Wives.  247 

Now  it  was  Nannie  who  was  flushing, 
and  so  prettily,  pursing  up  her  bewitching 
mouth  in  the  old  way. 
•     "Am  I  done  ?"  she  asked  presently  in  a 
lower  tone. 

"To  a  turn !"  he  replied. 

"Then  I  think  I'll  get  off  the  spit,  by 
your  leave,  sir,"  she  said  with  saucy 
bravado. 

And  she  arose  to  move  back  from  the 
fire. 

"Steve !"  she  cried,  "you  are  devouring 
me!" 


THE  END. 


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